


Trial & Errors

by jdmcool



Series: Dilemna'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people never learn not repeat the same mistakes. It shouldn't come as any small wonder that Sherlock and Mycroft are two of those people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Good Can Work

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to [The Holmes Dilemna](http://archiveofourown.org/works/402395/chapters/663274), as I can't really do a sequel yet. Every bit of this is done in a series of small trilogies.

When mummy had finally taken note of the conspicuous absence of her youngest son, Mycroft was the first to offer to go and find the boy. After all, he tended to have fairly good luck getting the boy to actually make an appearance at Mummy’s parties and with friends and family downstairs awaiting to bring in the new year, it was only right that the boy be down there as well. So, knocking on his door, he didn’t wait for a reply from inside before walking in.

Sherlock, lay sprawled out on his bed, blue eyes glaring at him briefly before turning back to the book in his hand. He was dressed for the party, which was a small benefit for Mycroft, as it meant that Sherlock had listened to him earlier when he yelled at the boy for not being ready. He had simply chosen not to move from his room, which Mycroft was more than willing to attribute to youthful rebellion, even if Sherlock had been acting in such a way since he was about six

“You’ve been hiding in here for the majority of the night. Did you ever consider actually being social this evening?” Mycroft asked as he closed the door behind him.

“No,” Sherlock said with a scoff, not even bothering to look away from the book he was reading. “All the people down there are here as mummy’s guests. Not mine. Why should I involve myself with them?”

Walking over to him, Mycroft rested his hand on top of the page Sherlock was reading, telling him, “It’s polite, Sherlock. It’s the decent thing to do.”

Looking up at him, Sherlock sneered. “And yet you’re up here with me. Did mummy send you looking for me?”

“Yes, she did. She wants you around, being kind to our guests.”

“It’s not going to happen,” he said, jerking his book from under Mycroft’s heavy palm. Trying to find where he had left off, he added, “I don’t need to be surrounded by a bunch of idiots who’ve been drinking too much just because it’ll be a New Year come midnight.”

“I assumed as much.”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Mycroft placed the bottle he had kept tucked carefully under his arm on Sherlock’s bed, looking downright right smug as he watched his brother look it over curiously before staring at him, trying not to look impressed.

“You took that from downstairs, didn’t you?” Sherlock questioned, failing to hide all the awe in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Did you get glasses as well?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he took the bottle back in hand. “It was hard enough getting away with the bottle. If you want glasses, you’ll be the one retrieving them.”

“I’ll drink from the bottle then,” Sherlock said, moving to kneel next to Mycroft, his book finally discarded for the sake of alcohol.

Of course, given Sherlock’s age, it really wasn’t really all that surprising. After all, he was still young enough to think that getting drunk could be fun rather than just the precursor to a number of bad decisions and an inevitable hangover.

“I thought you might make such a decision,” Mycroft said as he carefully worked the cork out of the bottle. And since he was the one to open it, it was only fair that he was the first one to drink from it, taking his time with it.

Sherlock just stayed all but pressed to his side, watching in surprise as he waited for his turn at drinking it, hand on the bottle even as Mycroft continue to drink. “Mummy would be most upset if she knew what it was you were up to,” he said before finally taking the bottle from Mycroft.

Giving him an amused look, he arched a brow at that. “Up to? Sherlock, the worst I’m doing is sharing a bottle of very nice champagne with my younger brother. I hardly think that’s a criminal act at your age.”

“Because everyone loves a sixteen year old who’s completely sloshed.”

“There are certain people who would enjoy such a thing,” Mycroft confessed. “After all, a willing body is always appreciated, no matter the circumstances, I’ve been told.”

Managing to pull the bottle away from his mouth before he became a sputtering mess, Sherlock handed it back to Mycroft with a disbelieving look. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you, of all people, are still a virgin. Not at your age.”

“First off, I merely meant that I enjoy my participants capable of giving full consent. And… My age?” He questioned, hating how old Sherlock managed to make him sound. “I’m only seven years older than you.”

“Quite the age gap, really,” Sherlock said since, at sixteen, twenty-three must’ve seemed like ages away, even if they were quickly coming to the point where their age difference stopped being the great divider that it had been when Sherlock was a boy. “That and I remember that friend you brought home from uni all those years ago. That brunette with the glasses, whatever happened to him?”

“His purposes in my life were rather limited,” Mycroft said, wincing at his own word choice. “Not that you liked him anyways. You kept embarrassing him every time you got the chance.”

Not that Mycroft had ever expected better when he chose to bring people home. It was actually a rather large reason for why he didn’t. Sherlock was barely nice to those he actually liked and it took some a great deal of time to get used to his particular brand of interacting with others. That and like most annoying little brothers, he seemed to enjoy doing most anything he thought might bother Mycroft.

Smirking about the entire ordeal to himself, Sherlock shrugged before taking the bottle back from Mycroft and taking a large gulp. “He was annoying.”

“Jealous?” Mycroft teased.

“Of my overweight older brother? Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed.

Taking the bottle when it was finally handed back to him, Mycroft decided to make himself more comfortable in Sherlock’s bed, lying down after taking a slow sip from the bottle. Licking his lips when he felt Sherlock shift to lie next to him, he said, “You really should make an appearance downstairs for mummy. She’d appreciate it and if you go before midnight, you can get a kiss from someone.”

“As if I want to be kissed by one of those annoying girls who are too busy playing at being an adult.”

“There are annoying men down there as well,” Mycroft offered. “Your interests tend to rest more in that directions, don’t they?”

“I’m not… Like you. I don’t like anyone.”

“You’ll grow out of that.”

Annoyed, Sherlock kicked at his shin saying, “I’m sixteen, not five. Besides, I’ve only ever really liked one person in my life and I hardly think one person constitutes a sexual preference.”

Which was more than enough to make Mycroft take interest. Looking at his brother with a wry look of amusement, he couldn’t help but question him on the matter. “You liked someone? Was it that girl that worked in the sweetshop? That posh little thing that hates you back at school? The genius you seem to think murdered Carl Powers?”

“Someone did and no one cares because people are idiots. You know someone murdered him,” Sherlock muttered sullenly.

“The evidence is ambiguous, but it does seem like a possible alternative to him drowning.”

“It’s more than possible. And if you want to know what turns me on, you have to share more than a quick sip of a bottle, Mycroft.”

Handing the bottle back to him, Mycroft laughed softly to himself, “You’re lucky I want to know just what kind of a drunk you are.”

Despite the questionable nature of getting blind drunk with his little brother when they both should’ve been downstairs being good hosts to the various party guests, Mycroft figured that mummy would’ve been equally happy that they were getting along, regardless of the mitigating circumstances. After all, their usual manner of getting along generally involved cold war type behaviours, where they both were waiting for the other to cross that invisible line they had set.

Lying about with Sherlock was more an unspoken truce than anything else and Mycroft rather appreciated it. After all, he did enjoy the company of his little brother a lot more than he would’ve ever admitted given the fact that Sherlock was closer to an equal than Mycroft was used to having and sometimes he simply missed the way they had been able to get along when they were younger, him constantly playing along with his brother’s little schemes. It made him happy, a feeling he was certain that Sherlock likely considered mutual judging by the way he kept nudging playfully at Mycroft leg with his foot, a small smile playing at his lips as he took a large gulp from the bottle.

Passing it back to Mycroft, he wiped at his lips before asking, “Have you replaced your brunette?”

“Hmm?” Mycroft questioned as he gave Sherlock a curious look. Not that the boy did much more than roll his eyes before fixing him with an annoyed look. Still, it didn’t take long for Mycroft to piece it together and tell him, “No. I’ve been a bit busy with work and all that. Why?”

“Curious,” Sherlock muttered, failing at being coy about the fact that he had reasons for the question as usual. Watching Mycroft take large sips from the bottle he finally said, “You’ve lost weight, you broke up with the brunette, and you’re in here drinking with me.”

Lowering the bottle, he handed it back to Sherlock before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, figuring that such a distasteful act would be better than using anything that he may have found in Sherlock’s room.

“You’ve figured it out,” he said dejectedly. “I’m on a diet, I grew bored of a relationship I was in to only fill my carnal needs and I don’t like the guests mummy invites around anymore than you do.”

Scoffing at the snide comment, Sherlock gulped down his own fair share of the champagne  before asking, “You sure you don’t want to find someone to snog at midnight? There’s likely someone down there who finds you attractive for reasons I could only imagine.”

“Do you charm everyone like this or are you just being especially kind to me?”

“That brunette was a bad idea anyways. He was all limbs and curly hair,” Sherlock sneered, ignoring Mycroft’s teasing. “Looks with hardly any personality.”

“I liked his looks.”

“I know. You were always watching him when he wasn’t looking.” Rolling over onto his side, his actions a bit cautious, proving that the liquor was starting to get to him, Sherlock nudged Mycroft’s side with a smug smile. “I’ve never seen a man look so conflicted. Like you were happy and upset at the same time.”

“That is rather the definition of conflicted, Sherlock,” Mycroft pointed out with a roll of his eyes before catching Sherlock’s hand.

Glaring, Sherlock jerked his hand back, not amused with Mycroft’s little games. Handing him the bottle, Sherlock watched as Mycroft drank from it before looking it over, taking note of the fact that they were clearly running low, a problem Sherlock solved by stealing the last of it for himself.

Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling for a long moment before telling him, “You should be down there, though. You should be down there with all those people pretending to enjoy yourself and leave me alone.” Shoving Mycroft’s side, he frowned as he tried to get him to move, something his brother didn’t seem all that inclined to do in the slightest. Meeting the curious gaze of his brother, he narrowed his eyes. “Go find someone to snog.”

Snorting, Mycroft shook his head and simply said, “It’s not midnight yet. And I could say the same for you. Certainly, you must find something interesting in kissing.”

“It’s just two mouths pressed against each other. Exposing yourself to another’s germs and—“

“You’ve never kissed anyone, have you?”

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock looked away from him. “I kissed that girl that one time. The blonde one.”

“She kissed you and you were ten. That wasn’t a proper kiss,” Mycroft pointed out.

Not that he was trying to be cruel, but he always figured that Sherlock’s curiosity would get the better of him once puberty hit. That he would take interest in the interest others took in him, at the very least. To think that Sherlock hadn’t even been properly kissed created a strange sort of feeling inside him that could’ve easily have been the liquor.

“It was two mouths touching and it was gross,” Sherlock said, trying to sound above it all.

Of course, Mycroft couldn’t let it go. Shaking his head softly, he let out a small huff of breath as he tried to find the right words.

“It isn’t the same though. Age gives a certain appreciation for the feel of a hand on your cheek, the first tentative press of lips from someone you’ve been longing to find yourself with because you never thought you’d get the chance because it was wrong on so many levels and there was no way any but you could have such feelings.”

Circling his finger around the lip of the bottle, Sherlock only shrugged off the description, looking far more resigned than any boy should on the matter of kissing. “The person I like, I think they’d kill me if I tried to kiss them.”

“They don’t like you back?” Mycroft asked, his stomach twisting once again at his brother’s description.

Opening his mouth, Sherlock paused before saying, “I… I don’t know. They have no reason to.”

Which had to be the most self-deprecating thing he had ever heard from his brother. Sherlock was such a certain little brat that for him to doubt anything, especially his own self-worth wasn’t just annoying, it was fundamentally wrong and Mycroft wasn’t going to stand for it.

Brushing a stray curl out of Sherlock’s face, he told him, “You should still try. What’s the worst that could come from trying? Embarrassment? Minor humiliation? I’ve seen how people typically speak of you, if you can handle that, you can handle anything.”

Not that he liked such a fact, but it was true none the less and it was the best sort of comfort he could come up with at the moment.

Still, Sherlock seemed reluctant to believe him, immediately saying, “Mummy would be upset.”

“Mummy would never have to know that you tried to kiss someone.”

“She might, though,” Sherlock said, staring pointedly at him.

Which was a fair enough thing given that they did tend to get each other in trouble. So, holding up a hand in some solemn pledge, he said, “I’ll keep your secret.”

“Promise?”

“I swear on your less than precious head,” he said, ruffling his brother’s hair.

Thinking it over, Sherlock nodded to himself, not even fighting the hand in his hair. “Alright. Thank you.”

“It’s really no problem.” If the promise to keep quiet on his brother’s crush was all that it would take to spur the boy into finally going after the person he was so interested in, he would do his best to keep quiet on the issue. Scooting closer to Sherlock, he asked, “So, when are you going to make your move?”

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head softly as he asked, “When is midnight?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft confessed as he made to check his watch. “Why?”

Watching as Sherlock took another large sip from the near empty bottle, Mycroft was almost certain that he’d have to do a bit more coaxing before he would ever be allowed to know just who it was that his brother was so worried about. When Sherlock put the bottle aside and kissed him though, Mycroft wasn’t sure what it was he was supposed to do.

There was nothing brotherly in the way that Sherlock lay pressed against his side, half on top of him, hand cupping his cheek as he failed to press the kiss any further. And yet the instinct to push Sherlock away and claim it all to be some drunken accident never came. Not when he had noticed the kind of looks Sherlock would come to have only a few years ago. Puberty had all but stripped his younger brother of all that baby fat, leaving behind sharp cheekbones and a slim figure, Cupid ’s bow lips that felt far softer than Mycroft would’ve ever expected.

His only saving grace was the fact that he wasn’t encouraging Sherlock on. He just let himself lie there, waiting for Sherlock to move and realize how awful everything he was doing was. How there was no excuse for such behaviour between brothers. How awful it was that he would taunt Mycroft with the fact that he shared in the same twisted need for reasons that could never be explained when neither of them could act on their feelings. Not really.

Finally seeming to take note of Mycroft’s stillness, Sherlock moved back just far enough to look down at him, a rare display of fear in those blue eyes that Mycroft desperately wanted to fix because Sherlock should never look so worried about anything.

“We’re nearly out of champagne,” Sherlock said just to say something as he stared off at the bottle.

“We are,” he said, glancing at it himself. Racking his mind for something to say before the silence had a chance to settle over them yet again, he sighed before saying, “You know—“

“Don’t,” Sherlock interrupted quickly. “I thought… I don’t know. Just don’t say anything.”

“I’m not going to tell mummy, but—“

“Will you stop talking?”

Licking his lips, Mycroft nodded since he didn’t know where he was going with that statement either. There was only so much comfort that could be given in their situation and the fact that neither of them seemed particularly willing to move didn’t make matters any better.

“What is it you thought?” He asked quietly, unable to leave well enough alone.

Letting out a frustrated noise, Sherlock looked off at the wall, lips pursed together in thought before he settled for a defeated shrug. “I don’t know. I thought there may have been a chance. Out of the past five people you’ve dated two have been nearly as smart as me while the other three just…”

“Fit your physical description,” he supplied since it was true.

On average he tended toward the tall, pale, brunette types, even if he didn’t particularly care to think about why having someone with dark curls made him feel happier. The only exception seemed to come when he could find intellectual stimulation from them instead, although Mycroft tried not to think of that too much either since even the most oblivious of people would’ve noticed what it all meant.

“I have both,” Sherlock said, sounding rather desperate as he looked back at him. “And I’m seen how you watch me and I know it’s wrong, what I feel, but I know you feel it too. That look on your face when you thought I was lusting after someone else, you were resigned to it and…When you were describing kissing someone… Just… Just tell me I was right about that, at least, please.”

Running a hand through Sherlock’s hair, Mycroft said, “I adore you, honestly, I do. Far more than I should because… I don’t know when things went wrong, but they did and these feelings, the ones we both happen to share, they aren’t right.” It was a twisted sort of sickness that rested between them and despite the crest fallen look on Sherlock’s face, the boy needed to be told as much. “This isn’t right and I’ve been avoiding it all for so long, but then… You just had to make it complicated didn’t you? You couldn’t have liked someone else?”

“There is no one else, Mycroft. That’s the point.”

And it was, really, Certainly if he knew that if he could find someone as smart as Sherlock, someone who made him feel the same way his younger brother did, he’d probably run away with them and never once look back because the alternative, wanting his younger brother so bad it truly did hurt just to be around him, wasn’t an option.

Not that Sherlock cared. He simply pressed his face to Mycroft’s cheek, clutching at him as he muttered, “You’re cleverer than anyone else I know and you look like an attractive tosser most days.”

Chuckling softly to himself, Mycroft shook his head fondly. “You’re still shite at seduction.”

“I can try harder. You can teach me,” Sherlock offered, a strange mix of desperation and excitement colouring his voice. “I just need to know I’m not messing this up. That I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mycroft said softly, hating the fact that he couldn’t even bring himself to lie.

Moving back to stare at him again, wide eyed and hopeful, Sherlock said, “Then prove it. Please.”

And honestly, what was he supposed to do? The alcohol buzzing through his veins mixed poorly with the look of utter terror on Sherlock’s face and Mycroft had always been willing to do whatever to make sure his brother was content. So, gripping the collar of his brother’s shirt, he kissed him. Just another gentle press of lips, so much like before except Sherlock did what he couldn’t bring himself to and kissed back, fingers immediately tangling in his hair.

The heavy weight of Sherlock on him, a spill of awkward limbs, was better than he had ever allowed himself to imagine. One hand finding its way to Sherlock’s hip while the other cautiously cupped the back of his neck. A constant sort of fear making his every action excessively careful as though one wrong move might cause Sherlock to flee or, even worse, prove it all to be some terribly wonderful dream.

A dream unlike the ones that plagued his mind when he visited home, his mind finally capturing the odd mix of hesitance and curiosity that his brother seemed to be filled with. Lips tentatively parting against his own before his slick tongue set about cataloguing every inch of Mycroft’s mouth, never once bothered by the occasional clash of teeth against teeth due to Sherlock’s eagerness and Mycroft’s willingness to let him do as he pleased.

It was the sort of kiss that Mycroft would’ve happily have let go on forever, just the two of them sprawled out against each other, tugging at each other’s lips with teeth. His mouth venturing off along Sherlock’s jaw every time Sherlock broke away for breath, hand still tangled in Mycroft’s hair, leaving it a complete mess. He was certain that they both could’ve easily remained like that forever if the distant sound of noise hadn’t caught him off guard. Turning his head away from Sherlock, he furrowed his brows before checking his watch.

“It’s New Year’s,” he muttered to himself, mildly surprised to note that they had quite easily missed midnight by a solid three minutes.

Reaching out to grab Mycroft’s arm, Sherlock looked over his brother’s watch with a small nod before staring at Mycroft. “So does this mean I get a midnight kiss?”

Swallowing, Mycroft didn’t even pause to think about it. Cupping his brother’s cheek, he happily went back to kissing him, hands far more eager to explore his brother’s body since puberty had been far too kind to Sherlock. It was much like how life was being far too kind to him, to have his brother grinding against him, just as eager for more, the options seemingly limitless.

At least, they should’ve been if not for the sound of someone knocking at Sherlock’s door. Scrambling away from each other, they both knew how guilty they must’ve looked and yet when their cousin opened the door, looking as though he’d had a few too many.

“Oi, your mum’s been looking all over for you and you’re in here getting pissed?” He laughed, too far gone to notice their askew appearance for what it was.

Licking his lips, Mycroft nodded at him, saying, “Right. We’ll be right down. Promise.”

“Better. I’m not here to be an errand boy,” he grumbled, although his smile gave away the fact that he didn’t really mean it all that much.

Waiting until their cousin left before letting out a soft sigh, Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was nervously straightening his shirt as he tried to hide the blush that had covered his cheeks. Rising to his feet, Mycroft did his best to make himself look a bit more presentable.

“Right. Well, mummy wants us so we should be heading down,” he said, vaguely remembering that getting Sherlock downstairs had been his goal for the evening to begin with.

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock stood as well. Running a hand through his even messier curls, he headed out with a soft, “Happy New Year’s, Mycroft.”

“You as well,” he said following along behind him.

The alcohol and Sherlock’s figure keeping him distracted from what he was certain was the worst way to start off the new year since the fact he and Sherlock both wanted each other couldn’t possibly make up for how awful such a thing truly was.


	2. What You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's bliss for one is an inescapable mistake for another.

It’s the taste of bile on his tongue as he gripped the edge of the toilet basin, stomach only just starting to settle that makes Mycroft certain that the New Year, the one that had only just begun, would bring about a long lasting hell. Eyes shut tightly against the bright light of the bathroom, he tried to catch his breath and not think about it too much, but his mind was little more than a constant chorus of one sentence: you seduced your own brother.

He had done things to his younger brother no sane person ever would because, of course, sane people would never harbour such perverse feelings. It was some horrible failing in his own life that he had found himself looking up upon Sherlock as anything more than a sibling. Something that he had tried to ignore and hide until what was only a few hours ago.

Wiping at the tears in his eyes, Mycroft tried to tell himself that it would all be alright. That it was just a drunk mistake that could be fixed, but brushing his finger along his lower lip, his mind immediately flashing back to Sherlock’s mouth on his, teeth catching his lip just so, his stomach lurched in protest to so much.

It took hours to get himself back in some semblance of control over his body and mind. By time he managed to present himself downstairs, lunch was half way through. Sitting down at the opposite end of the table than Sherlock, who was watching him like an anxious pup or something, Mycroft muttered his apologies for being late, staring at the food he was in no condition to eat.

“Is everything alright, Mycroft?” Mummy asked, concern written all over her face.

Forcing a smile, Mycroft nodded as he pushed his plate away from him, the smell of the food causing waves of nausea to form again. “I’m fine. Bit too much champagne last night. I should know better than to overindulge in horrible things like that,” he said sparing a glance at Sherlock.

Nodding, Mummy didn’t fight his statement or chastise him. She merely rested her hands in her lap and said, “Well if you’re feeling unwell, you should lie down. Perhaps by dinner you’ll be feeling a bit better.”

“Yes. Of course,” he said as he made his way from the room as quickly as he had entered it.

Making his way into his room, he tried to think of how it was he was supposed to handle the night before. Certainly making indirect comments at Sherlock wouldn’t work forever, as, eventually, he’d have to discuss what happened with him, but even the idea of that seemed far too daunting, even for him. It wasn’t like explaining death or where babies came from. It was a conversation that normal people didn’t have because they didn’t find themselves in the position he did.

Closing his eyes as he laid on his bed, face pressed into his pillow in a vague effort to hide his shame or suffocate himself, he wasn’t sure, Mycroft groaned when he heard a knock at his door. Turning his face to look at the door, he scowled as he said, “Come in.”

Poking his head into the room, Sherlock looked around nervously before his eyes finally settled on Mycroft. Walking into the room, smirk on his lips, the boy chuckled as he closed the door behind him.

“You look terrible,” he said teasingly.

“I had too much to drink last night. What would you expect?” Mycroft snapped, none too pleased with his brother’s new need to check up on him.

Wandering around Mycroft’s room, looking everything over with a far too careful eye, Sherlock shrugged, saying, “I had a lot to drink too and I’m fine.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes before burying his face in his pillow again. “Well good for you. Go away now?”

“You were fine last night,” Sherlock noted, something between sadness and worry tainting his voice.

Sitting up, he sneered at his younger brother, telling him, “Alcohol does tend to take a while to take effect, Sherlock. I would’ve assumed that you would know such a thing, if only from watching other people.”

Ignoring the cruel tone Mycroft took, Sherlock picked up a book from Mycroft’s desk, flipping through the pages before putting it back and asking, “Is there anything I can do?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but stopped before the words could leave his lips. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. There was a headache blossoming behind his eyes and his stomach felt like it would forever be twisted in knots and then there was Sherlock, simply standing there wanting to help.

Clenching his jaw, he took a deep breath before glaring at Sherlock. “Go away. The last thing I need is my little brother hovering about while I try to sleep this off.”

“I could come back later, if you’d like?”

“Or not at all,” Mycroft said, giving him a pointed look.

Obviously confused, Sherlock bit at his lip nervously as he stared his brother down. “But… I mean, about last night? I just—“

“Surely you aren’t actually that oblivious,” Mycroft groaned, tired of Sherlock inability to take the hint.

“What?” Sherlock questioned, still confused by his brother’s behaviour.

It was almost as though the boy was being an idiot on purpose, completely missing the subtle hints that Mycroft kept throwing at him to save face for both of them. No, Sherlock would keep pushing at it until Mycroft told him, in no uncertain terms, just what it was he wanted from his little brother. So, sitting up in his bed, he sighed before doing just that. Anything to make Sherlock leave his room once and for all.

“What happened last night was a mistake and I’m sorry. I don’t have feelings for you,” Mycroft spat out as though it was obvious. “Why would I? I’m your brother, Sherlock. It’s perverse and wrong.”

Stunned, Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to believe what was being said as he told Mycroft, “Last night, you kissed me back.”

Laughing derisively, Mycroft shrugged it off as though it was nothing, saying, “I was drunk. It was a mistake on my part, truly, but at least it allow me the opportunity to tell you that you need to move past this… delusion of interest you have in me. You don’t actually like me, you’re just young and skewing romantic feelings for siblings love. Perhaps your resolution should be to make an actual friend.”

“No,” Sherlock shot back. Red in the face, he looked as terrified as he was embarrassed, voice failing to form the right words for a long moment before he managed to choke them out. “Last night you said that—“

“I’ve said many things I shouldn’t have while drunk. Most people do.” Sighing  as he rubbed at his eyes, headache only growing with every word he forced out of his mouth, Mycroft said in a slightly more sympathetic tone, “Now, I’ll keep my promise about not telling mummy, because she’d be devastated if she knew, but I do want you to leave my room.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed before leaving as quickly as he could without actually breaking out into a run.

It hurt a bit to watch his brother flee like he had, looking as though he’d been sucker punched or the subject of a cruel joke, but Mycroft was certain it was for the better. In due time, the boy would move on from his twisted little crush or learn to ignore the way he felt like Mycroft had some time ago because what they thought of each other, mutual or not, it wasn’t natural or normal. It was a sickening travesty that could very easily be some sort of genetic defect that they had both fallen victim to. Not something that should’ve been nurtured and cared for. Lying back down, he did his best at putting the entire ordeal out of his mind.

Thankfully, what Mycroft chose to put his mind to often worked out for him. By the next morning he was fairly certain that he would never have to think about that kiss ever again. And while Sherlock seemed to be falling back into his usual reclusive nature, hardly managing to be in the same room as Mycroft as the days moved on, Mycroft couldn’t say that it was really all that different than before. Sherlock had stopped being a sweet younger brother years ago. His wry little insults and dirty looks were all but common place whenever Mycroft came home.

It was merely a matter of enduring them for a little longer, a challenge that only arose when it came to dinner as, while Sherlock often seemed to skip out on breakfast and lunch, mummy’s insistence that he actually eat one meal with them like a normal person typically brought him out from wherever he spent the day. So, when Sherlock appeared at the dinner table one evening, late and a bit wet, Mycroft only rolled his eyes and continued eating silently.

Not that it was meant to last all that long, since Mummy wasn’t the type to carry on meals without conversation. She made an effort to take an interest in both of their lives. So it was no grand surprise when, before long, she asked, “Mycroft, you’ll be heading back to London soon, yes?”

Pausing to wipe his mouth, he nodded sadly. “Yes. Duty calls and all that.”

“Such a pity. Certainly Sherlock and myself will miss you being around here, won’t we Sherlock?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed, not even bothering to look up from the food he was pushing around his plate like an upset child. “All he does is pick at his food because he’s trying to stick to his diet even though he’s slipped twice already. He wears that fowl cologne and spends far too much time in the bathroom, doing what I can only guess at.”

“Sherlock!”

Looking at Mummy, he cocked his head to the side and said, “It’s true. I can’t wait for him to leave.”

“Sherlock, mind yourself,” she warned. Folding her hands in her lap, she frowned at him, shaking her head slightly as she sighed. “You were so happy a few days ago. What happened?”

“All the rest of our family left with the advent of the new year and yet he seems to linger about,” Sherlock said, pointing at Mycroft as though he was some unwelcome guest, something he seemed to be in Sherlock’s mind.

“He’s your brother. You should be kinder toward him.”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock shot a nasty look at Mycroft. It was clear that the boy had a series of vicious little things he wanted to say in that regard, the centre of the problem right there in gaze, as though there was some sick temptation to mention it.

Placing his own silverware down with an excess of noise, Mycroft cleared his throat before smiling at their mother. “It’s no problem, mummy. I’m certain he’s just sick of hearing about me and London when he has a birthday coming up.”

“This is certainly no way to behave before a birthday, Mycroft,” Mummy said, unwilling to accept the excuse in the face of Sherlock’s attitude.

“Yes, but one can never trust Sherlock to behave the right way,” he said teasingly.

“Unlike you.” Pushing his seat away from the table, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest as he smirked facetiously at Mycroft as he asked, “Tell me Mycroft, just what did you get up to on New Year’s eve that led you to being so very hung-over the next day? Just sick of the company or were you off snogging some helpless young thing that you coerced into liking you for the night?”

“Sherlock, apologize!” Mummy demanded.

Mycroft was too shocked to do anything more than stare at him. The little nuisance didn’t even seem to care about the fine line he walked when it came to that night. That he could be implicated in everything that happened just as easily since it took two to do what they did, even if Mycroft didn’t want to acknowledge it as ever happening.

Looking between the two of them, Sherlock seemed to lose most of his ire, not that he did what he was told. Getting up from his seat, he rushed off to his room, stating, “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Watching him leave, Mycroft felt the initial shock of Sherlock’s statement fade away into a nameless mix of emotions. Mummy merely slumped in her seat, head resting in her hand as she likely tried to figure out what it was she was going to do with her wayward son since he couldn’t be allowed to carry on like he was.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” she said softly. “He was so pleasant before and now he’s acting worse than ever.”

Swallowing down the feeling of guilt, Mycroft nodded dutifully before getting up. “I’ll talk to him. I’m certain it’s nothing too serious.”

“That isn’t your responsibility.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I still have to figure out what it is he wants for his birthday, anyways.”

“You’re concerned about what to get him after what he just said to you?” Chuckling to herself, she shook her head in disbelief. It was hard to tell if she was impressed with him or pitying his naiveté, but none of it mattered when she waved him away, saying, “You’re a very loving brother, Mycroft.”

“Thank you. I promise I’ll make she he gets over his little sulk.”

Not that he knew just what it was he was going to do as he left the dining room. The idea of talking about it made him feel sick, but every step that brought him closer to Sherlock’s room only made him angrier because Sherlock wouldn’t rest until he ruined both of theirs lives because Sherlock was just that kind of horribly short sighted idiot. A bit of vengeance over the fact that Mycroft wanted nothing to do with him in a romantic sense, a feeling perfectly normal between brothers, was something worthwhile in that corrupt little brain of his.

Reaching Sherlock’s door, he didn’t bother to knock. He stormed in, somehow managing not to slam the door as he caught sight of Sherlock lying on his bed reading, in what was undoubtedly a purposeful imitation of that night.

“What the hell is your problem?” He questioned bitterly.

“You can’t just barge into my room, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he put the book down, as though the small invasion of privacy meant anything in comparison.

“Oh shut up. What did you think you were playing at downstairs, hmm?”

Lifting his chin in defiance, Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “Ending another boring conversation about your work in London, obviously.”

Astonished by the sheer gall the boy had, Mycroft stared at him as though he was the biggest mystery and imbecile of all time. “Do you want mummy to find out what happened?”

“I want you,” Sherlock stated with a steady voice and narrowed eyes. To look at him, it might’ve seemed like he had actually put thought and consideration into the idea, like it was something more than one of his disturbed impulses that would only end poorly.

Shaking off the thought, Mycroft took a shuddering breath as he ran his hand through his hair. “That isn’t going to happen, Sherlock. Your perverted whims are best left forgotten.”

“It’s not a whim.” Moving to the edge of his bed, Sherlock kneeled there with his head cocked to the side in confusion.  “You told me you wanted me back. You did. You said so.”

“I was drunk,” Mycroft said, for what felt like the millionth time. “Why can’t you seem to get over that?”

“Because it’s a miserable excuse. Drinking, alcohol, it lowers inhibition, not create feelings like this.”

It hurt to watch his brother cling to the idea that whatever happened was more than a drunken mistake. Such earnestness in the boy reminded Mycroft far too much of the child Sherlock used to be. Blue eyes practically pleading with him to just play along, to go with his mad thoughts. And yet, if he was to give an inch, Sherlock would take a mile and he couldn’t let that happen.

Licking at the corner of his lip, Mycroft could only shake his head sadly. “What you feel… I’m trying to help you because it’s… It is grotesque and flies in the face of everything. I am your brother, what happened was bad, but what you’re pushing for? I know even you aren’t that much of an abhorrent deviant.”

“What I feel is—“

“Unspeakable and entirely one sided. What if someone was to find out? Have you even thought of that? I mean… There are laws against such things for a reason.”

“But I’m not some woman,” Sherlock said, as though that honestly made it better. “Nothing bad can come of this.”

“Do you really think that’s the only reason for  such laws?” Mycroft asked, astonished at his brother’s wilful ignorance. Letting out a small sigh, he said, “Things like this ruin lives, Sherlock. It’s not something you can parade around because it’s wrong. Two siblings, no matter the gender, should never have such a relationship.”

For a long moment, Sherlock didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He just stayed  still as a statue as he stared at Mycroft, mind obviously working through what had been said. And then he lowered his head in defeat, a stiff nod of understanding following.

“Fine,” he practically whispered. “What I want… There will never be a relationship between the two of us because it’s… wrong.”

Letting out a breath of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding, Mycroft made his way over to Sherlock’s bed. Resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder, he managed an apologetic smile when the boy finally looked up at him, the need to make up for the disappointment he’d caused in the boy overwhelming, even if it was a necessary thing.

“Look, you’ve a birthday coming up in a few days and I still don’t know what to get you. So why don’t we put this aside and you can tell me what you want?”

Moving out of his reach, Sherlock stared at him and said, “I want you.”

Eyes widening at the statement, Mycroft was certain that he wanted to smack that smug glimmer right off his brother’s face. Clenching his fists at his side, he didn’t even know why he bothered. “Are you a complete idiot? I thought we covered this.”

“Yes, a relationship between the two of us can ruin both our lives. It would never work and it’s wrong,” Sherlock said, spitting out every word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “But I just want one night. I want sex.”

“I’m not some cheap whore you can pick up on the street.”

“You might as well be.” Licking his lips, Sherlock furrowed his brows together, mind still piecing things together as he spoke. “See, I don’t think anyone would take too kindly to the idea that you took advantage of me that night.”

“I didn’t though,” Mycroft said, hoping that such an obvious fact might mean something.

Of course, the way Sherlock seemed to close himself off, arms wrapped around himself like some impenetrable wall, he should’ve known it wouldn’t. No, Sherlock stared right through him, lips quirking slightly as he said, “But you did come to my room with a bottle of champagne when you were suppoed to be forcing me to the party. You got me drunk. Everything else, well, that’s just a lie, but I’m a good actor so it works. I can ruin your life at home, in London, everywhere if you say no. And I will.”

“You heartless little sociopath,” Mycroft said, awe struck by Sherlock’s despicable behaviour and sheer willingness to go through with it. “You’re talking about my job and telling mummy when you’ll get caught up in this too.”

“I’m sixteen. They’ll make me speak to people about how touched me in a bad place. What do you think they’ll do to you, Mycroft? I’m certain there are laws against that.”

Looking away from him, Mycroft tried to wrap his mind around it all. “Why are you doing this?”

Sherlock gave him a pleading look, as though it should’ve been obvious. “Because I want you and I’ve birthday coming up. Because you teased me with that night and then proceeded to rip it away. And if I only get you just once, I’ll take that.”

“You’re a sick little bastard, you know that?” Mycroft questioned, unable to hide how stunned he was by Sherlock’s words. “Normal people don’t do this. Normal people care about family enough to put aside… such feelings, if they could even be called that.  But you’re not normal, are you? You’re a soulless little hellion with no heart or feelings of regard for anyone but yourself.”

There was a flicker of shame on Sherlock’s face that Mycroft was half sure he had imagined as the boy told him, “You have til my birthday to sort out what you intend to do.”

With that, Sherlock reached for his book, burying himself in it as Mycroft stood at the foot of his bed. Blinking as he watched him start reading as though it had never happened, Mycroft didn’t know where to begin so he left. He walked out of Sherlock’s room, wandering the halls blindly until he made it to his own.

Collapsing on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, the ultimatum swimming through his head because if Sherlock was serious, he had a choice to make, neither option appealing to him in the slightest. Resting a hand over his mouth, let out a shaky breath, unsure how his year could be off to such a terrible start already.


	3. Do You Want It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By asking for sex, it’s a one-time thing that makes things worse, but it won’t happen again, so it works.

Staring out of the hotel room window, Mycroft couldn’t could only think of how horrible it was that he was there under the pretence he was. Practically the entirety of the day spent in the quiet company of Sherlock because it was his birthday and he owed the prat a debt since the tosser had him over the barrel with his little ultimatum.

Sleep with him or risk exposure of one drunken kiss they shared.

It was a sickening position to be in, only made worse by the fact that they had mummy’s approval. Oh, she’d been only too thrilled by the idea that he was being kind enough to take his brother out to ring in his birthday in a boyishly proper way. She probably suspected he’d treat Sherlock to a pint or something of that sort, that they’d talk about their lives, maybe the lives of anyone who passed them given their habit for noticing details, overnight it somewhere given the bags they’d each brought with them. A change of clothes for the morning, whatever that brought.

If she had known the real cause behind their evening from home, well, Mycroft was certain she would’ve despised the both of them for falling into such a state. Questioned how they could both fall victim to such insidious feelings, even if Mycroft was trying his damnedest to ignore them. Had been for so long.

“You ever going to speak to me or are we to do this in complete silence?”

Looking over his shoulder at where Sherlock sat on the bed, eyes trained on the terrible bedding as he ran his fingers along that rather than him. He looked nervous, scared of the enormity of what he had coerced out of his brother. It was a small consolation for Mycroft, given that he didn’t want Sherlock to take pleasure in what he was being forced to do. He wanted him to know, without a doubt, that if the little shit hadn’t been blackmailing him he would’ve back in London doing his best to forget he even had a sibling.

Not that he dared say any of that.

As soon as Sherlock looked up at him, he turned his focus back toward the window, idly wondering if this wasn’t some sort of sick twisted punishment for his own feelings like when a child was forced to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes after being found smoking one. Something to traumatise and force the interest out of him for the rest of his life.

Letting out a soft sigh, he turned toward Sherlock, who was still watching him, looking even more nervous than before as smoothed out the blanket on the bed. “You asked for something you know nothing about. Why?”

“I know about sex.”

Sherlock said it with his usual put upon petulance, but the way he sat there, forcing himself to meet Mycroft’s eyes said otherwise.

Rubbing at his eyes tiredly, Mycroft shook his head. “No you don’t. Nothing practical,” he said, watching as Sherlock looked away, a slight flush slowly covering his cheek. “You know what books tell you about sex and that kind of knowledge is useless. So why ask for this?”

Biting at his lip, Sherlock shrugged helplessly as he said, “Because if I would’ve asked for your continued attention it wouldn’t have worked. It wouldn’t make sense to threaten to tell everyone if the end result was just you dating me. But by asking for sex, it’s a one-time thing that makes things worse, but it won’t happen again, so it works.”

“You could’ve asked for a number of things that wasn’t actual sex though.”

“What I have over you is worth more than a quick jerk or blow.” Turning to look at Mycroft, Sherlock gave a sad smile. “And I know you think I’m perverse or an idiot since I’ve scarcely even kissed anyone but you, but… You don’t just get to toy with me without consequence.”

“So this is my punishment for lying?” Mycroft asked incredulously. Certainly even Sherlock could see how extreme it seemed.

But Sherlock only continued to look at him, a brief flash of hurt crossing over his face as he said, “I prefer to think of it as my reimbursement for being used.”

Moving over toward the bed, Mycroft stood at the edge of it for a long moment before finally sitting down next to his brother. Sherlock was quick to move his hand out of the way, scooting over to give Mycroft some space, as though, despite his little scheme, he didn’t actually want to touch him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, honestly meaning it, even if Sherlock didn’t believe him. “I was drunk and… I said things I shouldn’t have.”

Waving a hand to silence him, Sherlock let out a soft noise of annoyance. “Mycroft, I don’t need your excuses. Apologizing isn’t going to make me suddenly change my mind. I know…” Pausing, he exhaled heavily, an almost confused look on his face as he said, “This isn’t how I wanted this to go, any of it, but if it’s the only way to get what I want, why shouldn’t I go for it?”

“Because it’s wrong,” he said firmly, since it was something he couldn’t seem to reiterate enough where Sherlock was concerned.

Of course, Sherlock didn’t seem fazed by that in the slightest. Folding his hands in his lap, he muttered, “So is what I feel, according to you.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Mycroft insisted.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”

That Mycroft didn’t bother to argue, fairly certain that Sherlock was speaking to himself when he said it. After all, Mycroft knew he would never be convinced into seeing the entire sordid ordeal as anything more than an act he had no choice to agree to. But for Sherlock, who looked half defeated sitting there, a brief flicker of what Mycroft wanted to believe was self-loathing of some sort marring his features, the words were some sort of security blanket. A reason to keep at his awful charade in spite of the consequence.

“So,” Sherlock said, dragging out the syllables as he turned toward Mycroft. “Shall we begin or are you just going to stall all night and pray I don’t tell anyone in the morning?”

“Fine.”

Mustering up as much courage as he could, Mycroft gently pressed his hand against Sherlock’s chest, his younger brother scooting back onto the bed a bit until he was sprawled out on the bed, Mycroft nearly on top of him as he rested on his forearms.

Staring down at him, Mycroft stilled, his mind still mulling over whether or not it wouldn’t be better to just let Sherlock tell the world and face those consequences instead. And yet the option was taken away from him the moment Sherlock leaned up and kissed him, lips soft and unsure, yet so very determined not to back down.

It was exactly how Mycroft found himself feeling, though his nerves were caused by something very different than inexperience. Running his hand through Sherlock’s hair as he laid his brother back fully on the bed, he tried to think of anyone else. Any sort of distraction from the reality that was Sherlock’s uncertain hands resting on his waist or the pleasure he didn’t want to admit he took in the feeling.

Even if it was nothing more than a physical reaction to having someone under him, kissing him with increasing confidence as a sly tongue slipped its way into his mouth. The fact that Sherlock was the source of the way he felt did nothing to make Mycroft feel any better about what he was doing, trying his best to keep himself from getting lost in the feeling as he pressed himself against his brother’s lithe form because Sherlock was still his brother. They were related and it was wrong, even with how eager the boy was, breathless little noises escaping his mouth only to settle unpleasantly in Mycroft’s increasingly interested groin.

Jerking away from Sherlock the moment he felt a hand actually touching his skin, Mycroft stared at Sherlock, catching the look of surprise before the boy made to move away. Resting a hand on Sherlock’s chest, Mycroft shook his head.

“Don’t. I’m not backing out now,” he said, trying to keep his voice impartial.

The proceedings he was being forced into weren’t something he wanted, no matter how his body reacted. It was merely a process to work through with as little thought as possible. The point was to be quick and efficient, he told himself as he took off his shirt. The quicker they got down to the business the quicker it would be over.

Except that idea completely ignored Sherlock, who seemed rather keen to take his time as he cautiously ran his hand up Mycroft’s stomach. Smiling as he rested his hand over Mycroft’s heart, he said, “You’re hairier than I remember.”

“We can’t all be still in the tender embrace of puberty,” Mycroft shot back, quickly unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt as though to prove his point.

“When did that happen?”

Pliant as a doll as Mycroft made to remove Sherlock’s shirt, the younger Holmes only seemed to be focused on the exposed skin of his brother, eyes and hands roaming freely over his body. Fingers trailing down his back, only to move to rest on his forearm, creating imaginary patterns out of the freckles there before moving on to trail of hair around his naval.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, obviously exasperated as he tried to work up the nerve to remove the last barrier of clothing between them. Something that wasn’t any easier to sort out with Sherlock gently tugging at his chest hair curiously. “And honestly, the fascination you hold with my chest hair—“

“It’s soft,” he muttered, lips quirked up in a small smile. “Like a puppy.”

Pinching at the bridge of his nose, Mycroft took a deep breath before dropping his hand to grab his brother’s wrist. Holding the hand against his chest, he stared at his wide eyed little brother seriously. “Sherlock, as a general rule, you don’t compare the person you are about to sleep with to a dog of any age or size.”

“It would help if you weren’t all fur,” Sherlock said teasingly. “Fur and freckles.”

It was exactly what he would’ve expected his obnoxious little brother to say and it made him angry because things weren’t supposed to feel normal. Not in the midst of what they were doing. It was supposed to feel wrong and terrible, not leave some horrible stab of fondness.

Pinning Sherlock’s wrists above his head on the bed, Mycroft told him, “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

Looking up at his pinned wrists and then at the body just hovering over his, Sherlock laughed as he said, “Quaint. But I rather think I like it, your fur.”

Determined to end the conversation, Mycroft kissed Sherlock again, grip on his brother’s wrists loosening just enough to allow him to go back to touching, something Sherlock did all too eagerly. The boy was determined to make things more difficult than necessary, blindly stumbling across sensitive spots that made Mycroft’s breath catch or sent a shiver down his spine, only to repeat them again with more confidence. It made the moment into something it wasn’t supposed to be: nice.

So when he trailed his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, caught between trying to leave a mark and not as he grinded against his little brother, it was in an effort to regain control. It wasn’t about the sharp intakes of breaths that escaped Sherlock or the way he arched into Mycroft. All of it was nothing more than an effort to keep himself from getting distracted by foolish little things like the hand that undid his trousers, cupping him through his pants as he rocked into it. The need to get it over with as soon as possible the driving force behind the way he quickly stripped Sherlock of the rest of his clothes and nothing.

Shifting nervously, Sherlock rested a hand on his stomach as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to cover himself up or not as his eyes seemed to focused on the door. “Will you stop staring at me like that?”

Blinking rapidly, Mycroft nodded, as he wiped at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Yeah. Whatever,” Sherlock said; once again behaving like the awkward virgin he was supposed to be.

Mycroft wanted to point out that there was nothing to stare at anyways. That Sherlock was nothing more than sharp planes and angles, the faintest bit of childhood pudge still lingering around his middle. Pale skin contrasted by dark hair, gangly limbs and a poorly concealed innocence that made the determination in his eyes all the more painful because the latter would’ve never come to exist if not for that one drunken night.

Instead, he grabbed the bag Sherlock had brought in, rummaging through it as though he might find a solution to the quagmire he knew they were in. What he came away with was nothing more than condoms and lubricant and an increasing sense of dread as he removed the rest of his own clothes before settling between his brother’s legs.

“You might want to roll over,” Mycroft said, unable to look up from the bottle of lubricant in his hand.

Pausing for a long moment, Sherlock let out a soft breath before saying, “No. I… I want to see you.”

“I’m trying to make this as comfortable as possible for you.”

“I don’t care about that. I just… I want to see you, so figure something else out.”

Eyes falling shut, Mycroft silently wondered why it was Sherlock felt the need to make everything far more complicated than it needed to be. He laid there, hand just grazing along his own cock, too nervous to actually touch himself with someone else in the room and yet somehow he still seemed to have enough gall to make nonsensical demands. But it was Sherlock’s birthday demand and arguing only seemed to prolong things.

Grabbing a pillow, he placed it under his brother’s hips, vaguely aware of the blush that seemed to be laying claim to Sherlock’s pale skin at being so exposed. Opening the lube, Mycroft carefully poured it onto his fingers, determined to leave as little trace in the hotel room before pressing one against Sherlock’s hole, his eyes determinedly focused on his brother’s face the entire time.

“Have you ever…” He tried to ask, only to lose the words because it was something he knew he didn’t want to know about his younger brother.

Looking up at the headboard, as though that would distract from the red tint of his cheeks, Sherlock nodded silently, squirming against the finger resting against his opening with no intent of doing anything more than maintaining a connection.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft nodded as well. It was nothing he hadn’t done before, circling his finger around the tight ring of muscles before gently pressing in, careful to make sure he wasn’t causing pain before adding another. The fact that it was Sherlock on the receiving end of things, gasping as he bore down on Mycroft’s finger, trying to get more of the sensation only complicated things. An unnameable feeling swelling up in him as Sherlock all but demanded more.

Not that it was his duty to argue it. His only purpose for the evening was to give in, something he did far too willingly. So grabbing the condom, he put it on, going through the mechanical movements of lubing himself as he tried to forget that the panting boy underneath him was his brother. It was all a process: lining up, thrusting forward into what was essentially another willing body. There was no reason to dwell on the fact that virginally tight body around him was his brother until Sherlock went tense beneath him.

“Stop. Stop,” Sherlock said, hands pressing at Mycroft’s shoulders.

There was a panic in his eyes, discomfort written all over his face. How long it had been there was anyone’s guess, given how intent Mycroft had been on forgetting just who it was he was sleeping with, but now that it was right there before him, he didn’t hesitate to listen.

Doing as he was told, Mycroft couldn’t resist the urge to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Sherlock, just relax.”

“I don’t want to relax. I…” Shaking his head frantically, Sherlock laid there with his eyes shut tight, chest heaving as he tried not to panic. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this.”

It was exactly what Mycroft had wanted to hear and yet, they were already past the point of no return. To stop now seemed entirely pointless. So, running his hand through Sherlock’s hair, he laid soft kisses along his face, muttered, “You don’t mean that. Just relax, Sherlock. I promise, regardless of everything, I don’t want to hurt you.”

The truth of the statement settling like a weight in his stomach as he waited for Sherlock’s moment of panic to pass. Even if he didn’t want to be in the situation he was in, there was nothing he wouldn’t have done to ensure that Sherlock, at the very least, wasn’t traumatized by the experience. Sweet nothings still pouring forth between butterfly kisses, hand on Sherlock’s waning erection, stroking him teasingly until the boy finally seemed to relax enough for him to fully bury himself in his brother’s tight heat only to go still as Sherlock adjusted to the new feeling.

Feeling Sherlock’s grip on his shoulders loosen, Mycroft turned toward his brother with an expectant look. The poor idiot still seemed a bit out of sorts, carefully testing from the faint clenching of his muscles to the searching look he gave Mycroft. And yet, when Sherlock finally moved, quietly whimpering Mycroft’s name like a plea, there was no way he could deny him.

All the hatred he felt for the situation fading away into a myriad of sensations and soft noises. His mind taking note of what made Sherlock gasp or those long legs wrapping around his waist the way he word memorize any other lover, even if it was only that one night that would find Sherlock underneath him, panting against his lips as he tried to voice his need for release until words failed him altogether as he spilled over Mycroft’s fingers. And while that should’ve been it, Sherlock’s release being his goal, Mycroft could hardly force himself to stop, fucking his brother through his orgasm until his own caught up with him with a gasp.

And yet once the moment passed, he moved away, tossing the condom in the bin before lying back down while Sherlock merely used his discarded shirt to clean himself up. Staring at the ceiling, he wasn’t sure what it was that he was meant to do, not that it mattered.

Rolling over onto his side, Sherlock began to toy with his chest hair again, making the most of the privilege while he still could. “Do you hate me? For making you do this?”

“I don’t know. Don’t dwell on it,” he said, knowing that he had no intention of thinking on the evening ever again.

“I don’t want you to hate me.”

Turning his head to look at his brother, Mycroft ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair before pulling him close enough to hold. He pressed a kiss to his brother’s head like he used to when the boy was younger and disinterested in anything that wasn’t pirates and biscuits.

Closing his eyes, he furrowed his brows before finally finding it in him to say, “You should go to sleep. In the morning we’ll be leaving.”

Anything else beyond that was inconsequential. The morning would bring what it would and there was nothing more than that to be done. For now, all Mycroft wanted to do was lie about, eyes trained on the ceiling as Sherlock continued to toy with his chest hair thoughtlessly.


	4. Selfish Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was doing such a good job of moving past his odd crush on Mycroft before the man decided to be a git.

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he expected to take place the morning after he’d had sex with Mycroft. The entire ordeal seemed so distant and far off, somehow surreal despite the new kind of soreness he felt lying on the bed while Mycroft lay half sprawled on top of him. He had never been certain what it was he wanted to achieve in the seduction of his brother and the answer didn’t seem likely to come.  Whether he expected the sex to be good enough to tide him over for the rest of his life or simply a miserable experience he’d never want to repeat, it wasn’t either and that made everything after all the more difficult when his brother finally did wake.

Mycroft was only too willing to act as though he had only went through the actions of the previous night to protect himself, bringing him home with scarcely a word about what they had done. Like the night before, they travelled in absolute silence, each lost in their own thoughts until they reached home where Mycroft finally told him that he expected Sherlock to live up to his end of the deal. And while it was tempting to tell him no, to continue lording it over his brother’s head until he figured out what it was he wanted, he knew it would never work so he agreed and promptly went off to his room.

 From there it wasn’t all that long before Mycroft was heading back to London and Sherlock was back to his usual life of boring classmates who carried on in their own little world of strange behaviours and cliquish attitudes. He figured that, at least, would’ve stayed painfully normal, but, then, he did have a way of underestimating himself.

It wasn’t as though he had intended to take up their habits seriously. He was simply curious about their behaviours and the best way to satisfy that curiosity was to do as they did. He was fairly certain that was how he had found himself discovering that sex didn’t mean anything and that Mycroft had been quite right in regards to that obnoxious prat who constantly harassed him. At the very least, figuring out the way relationships and the social norms of those his age worked was something to get his mind off most everything else in his life.

By time summer rolled around, he felt he had attained a certain expertise in the matter, as well someone to share it with.  Helen was the daughter’s one the cook, and the latest edition to the staff. All blonde hair and mischievous smiles, Sherlock found her curious and well worth his interest. What it had earned him as of yet were a few lovely dates, many hours of talking and scarcely anything more than a quick snog since, for the life of him, he couldn’t get any further with her. It made her more interesting in some ways, that did.

Wandering down the halls, he searched room after room until he found her, in the midst of changing the bedding like Mummy always had someone do every two weeks. Going over to the barren bed, he laid down on it with a smirk.

“Sherlock, I’m working.”

“You’re occupying time doing frivolous tasks meant to keep you busy.”

“That is what working tends to be, from what I’ve found,” she said with a smile as she continued to fold up the old bedding.

Scoffing, he sat up only to crawl over to the foot of the bed where she stood. Watching her completely ignore him in favour of bedding, he frowned. “Certainly this can wait while you have a quick lie about with me?”

“No. It can’t.” Placing the folded bedding down next to him, she leaned in close with a wickedly playful smile on her lips as she said, “Your brother will be here soon.”

“Mycroft is coming home?” He asked as his stomach plummeted.

In what was certainly his effort to put distance between them and everything that had happened, Mycroft rarely seemed to visit home anymore. He always had important work, even though he was just some civil servant. And when he did visit, well, they were never as pleasant as they had been given that Sherlock was only too willing to turn the small bit of space Mycroft tried to create into a chasm of malice and bitterness.

Falling back down onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, Sherlock was certain that nothing good could come of his brother’s visit and could only hope that it wouldn’t happen to often over the course of the summer.

“Yes. Everyone in the house seems to know about it except for you,” Helen continued, otherwise oblivious to his sudden change in moods. “Mum is especially excited for his visit.”

“That’s because no one enjoys your mum’s cooking more than Mycroft. I wondered how fat he’s gotten this time,” he mused to himself.

Still, Helen was quick to smack his side, a scandalized look on her face as she told him, “That’s rude.”

Unbothered, Sherlock merely shrugged it off as he stared at the ceiling. “It’s true. He’s always had a thing for fatty foods and sweets.”

“Unlike you and your experiments.”

“I don’t have a thing for experiments,” he muttered defiantly. Not that she believed him if that coy look on her face was anything to go by. Sitting up just enough to rest on his elbow, he smirked. “I have a thing for blonde girls who find bedding more fascinating than me.”

Watching her roll her eyes was all the incentive he needed to grab her hand and tug her onto the bed with him. Despite the fight she always put up, Sherlock had quickly learned that Helen liked him when he was feeling particularly mischievous as well. It was a horrible combination for anything long term, he was certain of that, but the best part about Helen was the fact that she seemed to understand that it was nothing more than a summer’s tryst.

Forcing herself up just enough to look down at him, Helen shook her head as she sighed. “Still have work and this is your brother’s bedroom.”

“And he’ll be here eventually. Point?”

Pinching his arm gently, she said, “The point is that you are being a nuisance and I have work to do.”

“You’re making his bed. Surely that can wait?” He asked as he wrapped an arm around her side.

“I’d rather get it done now, Sherlock.”

Rolling his eyes, he turned his head to the side before waving her off. “Fine. Go back to your precious folding.”

“Don’t worry. As soon as I finish you can have my undying attention,” she said, patting him on the cheek.

Frowning to himself, he didn’t bother replying. Instead, he merely laid there, motionless. When she made to kiss him on the cheek in some sort of vague apology for the work she was so unwilling to ignore, he quickly turned his head, pressing his lips to hers with a smile.  If she hated it, it certainly didn’t show in the way she kissed him back or failed to move away when he pulled her closer. The only sound to come from Helen was a surprised noise when he rolled them over, giving him a perfect opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth.

It wasn’t all that long before the fact that she was meant to be protesting against his behaviour seemed to fade from her mind as she ran her hand through his hair, tugging at his curls every so often, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders like a cascade of sunlight around them. They fit together so perfectly, getting lost in the exchange of lazy kisses, that the ceased to exist around them in those moments.

“So this is how my room is used when I’m away,” Mycroft said, his voice cutting through any  near silence of the room like a guillotine.

Watching her scramble to get up, Sherlock blinked curiously. Sitting up as she straightened her clothes, face red as a cherry as she focused on the floor, Sherlock merely glared at his brother, idly taking notice of the fact that the man had picked up a good deal of weight again and wasn’t paying him any mind in the slightest.

“I thought you having a place in London meant that you wouldn’t be around here anymore?” He questioned, obviously annoyed with his brother’s mere presence.

Arching a brow at him, Mycroft didn’t say a word. Instead he looked over Helen with an unreadable expression and asked her, “Who are you exactly?”

“Helen. Mrs. Stoner is my mum,” she said sheepishly. “I’m working here for the summer. Was just changing the sheets.”

“And doing a rather poor job of it from what I can tell,” Mycroft pointed out, his gaze falling on Sherlock with a pointed stare.

Going even redder, Helen nodded as she toyed with her shirt. “Sorry. I uh… I told him no but…”

“Some people find me hard to resist,” Sherlock bragged.

Looking him over, Mycroft turned back to Helen with a terse smile. “Well, I was merely looking for my brother as mummy would like to see us both, so you can continue on as you were without distractions.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Just make certain this doesn’t happen again.” Lifting his chin, likely to stare down his nose at Sherlock, he frowned at him. “Come along, Sherlock.”

“Why? It’s just going to be you telling Mummy about all the pleasant dinners you’ve been having, judging by your size,” he sneered.

And while Helen looked positively horrified by his statement, Mycroft seemed to have adjusted to the insults Sherlock had taken to slinging at him, not faltering in the slightest, aside from the way his  hand twitched at his side with the urge to do anything from covering his stomach self-consciously or hit Sherlock. Not that he was likely to do either, his annoyance and insecurities kept hidden simply to deprive his little brother of the joy that came from getting a rise out of him.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft let it out slowly before saying, “Sherlock, it’s what mummy wants.”

“I’m fine here.”

“I’d rather you not let your hormones run rampant with your new girlfriend in my bed.”

“Do you have someone else you’d rather I’d let my hormones run rampant with?” He shot back, snidely.

Because if ever there was a way of shutting his brother up, it was mentioning that night in some way, breaking the unspoken rule that he wasn’t supposed to even hint at what happened between them in any way, shape or form.

Staring at him in shock, Mycroft stood up a bit straighter, clearly biting back whatever gut reaction he had judging by the way he kept glancing at Helen. Brushing his thumb along his lip, he smirked before saying in a sickly calm voice, “Sherlock, you’re wanted downstairs by mummy, not sprawled out in my bed under some girl. Understood?”

Furrowing his brows, Sherlock nodded. “Of course.” Standing up, Sherlock walked to the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly before hopping off, simply to annoy Mycroft, before making his way over to Helen. Kissing her cheek, he muttered, “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“You’ll have a pleasant chat and tea with your brother and mum. I’m busy,” she said before turning her attention back toward the bedding, showing the same caution around Mycroft that she did around their mums at times.

And had it been any other time, he might have pushed at the issue a bit more, but instead, he chose to let it go, walking out of the room without saying a word to Mycroft. Not that such a fact stopped Mycroft from talking to him the moment that he closed the door.

“My bedroom, are you really that horrendous?” Mycroft asked in a harsh whisper.

Looking over his shoulder at him, Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was after her, not crap reminders of you. By the by, is a recent break up or lack of a sex life that’s the source of that extra weight? You have to be about two stones heavier than you were last visit.”

“I have a stressful job.”

“Much like how you had a stressful time at university, school, your childhood was especially stressful judging by the photos I’ve seen.”

Nearly growling, Mycroft clenched his fists at his side. “You’re an obnoxious little cad.”

“And you were rude to Helen.”

Pausing in the middle of the hallway, Mycroft stared at him in amused disbelief. Letting out a chuckle, he said, “Helen was snogging some nuisance in my bed. And since when do you even like… women.”

“I’m not like you, Mycroft. My interests aren’t limited to one sex,” he snapped, finding something about the way Mycroft spoke of Helen bothersome. After all, it wasn't as though Mycroft had any real reason to be so disapproving. He was the one that didn't harbour the sick feelings that Sherlock did toward his brother.

“Or age or familial relations.”

“Tell me, that last bloke of yours, did he leave you because you’re never around or because your growing resemblance to an elephant seal?”

Applauding him, sarcastic smile firmly in place, Mycroft let out a vaguely amused sound. “Oh very clever. Now if only you could figure out how to get your way into dear Helen’s skirt, since clearly not getting anywhere with her.”

“And yet I’m certain I’m getting more action than you are,” he said, standing up a bit straighter.

Moving to stand in front of him, Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him as he crossed his arms over his chest. Up close and angered, Mycroft seemed even more imposing then he usual did, staring down at Sherlock as though he was somehow beneath him. “Stay out of my room. I’ll be visiting more this summer and I don’t want to come home to find you masturbating in there because another person in your life has no interest in sleeping with you.”

Before Sherlock could even muster up something to say, Mycroft continued on his way downstairs. Sherlock was certain that if he hadn’t froze up, old feelings of hurt firing off like a nicely trigger bomb, he would’ve come up with something to silence Mycroft for once. Something to leave him standing around like an imbecile scrambling for anything to say.

Even worse was the fact that he couldn’t just go off to his room or hide somewhere because Mycroft would know what that meant and mummy would eventually send his brother after him. He couldn’t even win for losing and he hated it almost as much as the idea that Mycroft had every intention of being around more.

Still, as he headed downstairs, Sherlock managed to convinced himself that it wouldn’t be so bad. The worst Mycroft could do was show up for the odd weekend and be a nuisance. He was the one with a girlfriend and he knew how to handle his own. Yet as he walked into the sitting room where mummy and Mycroft were already talking, his brother merely glancing at him over the top of his cup of tea, Sherlock began to have a feeling of dread that more than outweighed the way his stomach tightened in a near Pavlovian reaction to being at the centre of his brother’s attention, regardless of the reason.


	5. I Still Remember

When Mycroft had said that he would be visiting more, Sherlock had never actually expected him to follow through with such a plan. And yet, by the mid-July, he had seen far more of his brother than he had ever actually wanted to, an easy thing considering that he hadn’t actually wanted to see his brother at all to begin with. Yet, it often felt that the man was lurking about at every turn, always invading the space that Sherlock had come to consider his own personal home, since Mycroft didn’t live there anymore. He left to live in London, which he wasn’t doing nearly enough.

A problem only made worse by the fact that Mycroft seemed to have the unexpected talent of making certain people feel like worms not good enough to crawl on the face of the Earth with one placed comment. And while those comments didn’t seem to be directed at him after the night that neither of them talked about, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for those who did fall privy to such words from his brother and the most common victim, from what he had noticed, seemed to be Helen, not that he had any real clue why. Still, the best solution to any good question was to ask about it, from what he had gathered.

Walking over to her, Sherlock rested a hand on her shoulder, frowning when she startled like a frightened rabbit. It was clear from the way she stared through him as she tried to calm herself that he wasn’t the one she was expecting, but that didn’t serve to make things better when she finally found her voice.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. I thought you were your brother.”

Ignoring the initial urge to make some comment about how that was far more insulting that she probably understood, he furrowed his brows as he asked, “Why are you so scared of Mycroft? He’s not likely to eat you if you run.”

“It’s nothing. What do you want?” She asked, standing a bit straighter to look as though she hadn’t been scared out of her wits moments ago.

“I want to know why you’re so scared of Mycroft.”

“I’m not,” she said petulantly as she went back to dusting. Biting at her lip, she added quietly, “He’s just been very specific in what he wants from me.”

“Sex?”

It was a cruel joke, but well worth it to see the almost concerned look in her eyes. Despite having worked around the house since the start of summer, Helen didn’t really know Mycroft well, which gave Sherlock more than a little leeway to say just about anything and have it taken with a grain of truth.

 Leaning against the bookshelf, he waved off the comment with a smirk as he said, “Don’t worry. You’re not his type.”

“Should I be insulted by that?” Helen asked, obviously torn on how to take the remark.

“I don’t know. Have you ever wanted a cock?”

Even though she covered her mouth to hide the look on her face, Sherlock could tell from the look in her eyes the moment her surprise turned into amusement and then guilt since she tried quite hard not to be taken in by his special brand of secret telling. Dropping her hand, she prodded him with the duster, getting dust all over his shirt in the process.

“You shouldn’t say that about him.”

Trying to wipe off the dust with his hands, Sherlock shrugged. “It’s true.”

“But it’s his business.”

“From how often he’s been visiting, I highly doubt he’s getting any business.”

Turning back to her task, Helen shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh in the process. “Well then you should understand him all the better.”

Which was a low blow, but it wasn’t as though he could make such a claim to her. After all, she was the one he was trying to get into bed, although she seemed a bit more reluctant than most of the people he had tested the waters of sexuality with. For whatever reason, she didn’t see his looks or intelligence or even his awful behaviour as a reason to indulge his wants immediately, instead taking her time with him. Although from the slow progress he had made so far, Sherlock was almost certain that his end goal was in sight.

Pushing himself away from the bookshelf with a heavy sigh, he turned around and grabbed the first one he set sights on. Flicking through the pages briefly, he rolled his eyes before putting it back, saying, “So why are you so scared of him?”

“I’m not scared.”

“But there is a problem.”

Looking toward the ceiling as she frowned, Helen hesitated before telling him, “It’s nothing. Honest. He’s just… demanding. I don’t know why, but he always seems to find fault with me.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, even though he had a fairly clear idea.

“Nothing I do is right and he doesn’t so much ask my name as bark it. Always, ‘Miss Stoner this’ and ‘Miss Stoner that’. I mean, I don’t mind, but he’s rude and I don’t understand why. I haven’t done anything. Of course, he’d turn that into some little quip about my work effort,” she grumbled miserably before going back to said work looking a bit more sullen.

“I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Sherlock, no.” Whipping around, Helen quickly grabbed his arm, practically glaring at him as she said, “I didn’t tell you so you could be a knight in shining armour.”

Not that Sherlock thought he was being anywhere close to a knight in shining armour. He was merely putting an end to Mycroft’s odd behaviour before it could carry on any longer. If anything, he was making sure that Helen didn’t become a larger casualty in their little war.

Ducking his head as his brows knit together, Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft is a git who has no right to be mean to you. He’s more of a guest around here than you are.”

With that, he tried to jerk his arm away as kindly as possible, only to have Helen take hold of his shirt instead. Giving her an exasperated look, Sherlock was certain that under any other circumstance, he might’ve liked the stubborn glint in her eyes.

“Sherlock, no,” she said firmly.

Placing his hand over hers, he pried it from his shirt before holding it gently. Looking her in the eyes, he sighed. “Helen, don’t concern yourself with this.”

“Why not when it concerns me?”

“Just… Think about our date tonight. That’ll be fun, yeah?” He asked, all but pleading with her to let him go.

For a moment, he thought that she might call him out on his crap change of topics. Jaw clenched as tightly as her fist in his hand, she certainly could’ve pushed the topic like she tended to. And yet, she didn’t. Instead, she let out a heavy sigh as she ran her free hand through her hair, looking off at anything but him.

Pursing her lips, she jerked her hand away from his. “If you make things worse, I don’t think I’ll want to be going out with you.”

“I won’t make things worse,” he promised.

“You better not.”

Nodding, Sherlock managed to muster up a small smile as he fled the study in search of his brother. He didn’t think it would be all that hard of a search given that there was generally so much of Mycroft to see, but for whatever reason, the man seemed impossible to find. He wasn’t in his room or the kitchen or outside. Sherlock was certain that he had scavenged the entirety of the house at least twice before he made his way to the gardens, idly wondering whether or not Mycroft had left for London early.

Something that was hardly the case when he turned the corner to find the man seated under a tree with a book as though he had been there all day, even though Sherlock was certain that he had checked every nook and cranny for his brother. Watching his ever indolent older brother, Sherlock took a deep breath before storming over and knocking the book out of his hands.

Stunned, Mycroft looked at where the book lay next to him before slowly raising his gaze to look up, shock fading to understanding the moment he laid eyes on his little brother. “Hello, Sherlock. How may I help you?” He asked calmly.

“Mycroft, what the hell is your problem with Helen?”

Rearing back slightly at the question, Mycroft gave him a confused look as he shook his head slightly. “Would that be the lovely girl who was snogging you in my room that one day?”

“Don’t be petty,” Sherlock sneered. He knew how Mycroft’s mind worked a lot better than most and had first-hand experience with the passive aggressive way he went about attack all that which he didn’t like, given the many weeks he spent violently avoiding everything to do with Sherlock.

So when his brother just continued to watch him as he used that ever-so-polite tone as he spoke, Sherlock wasn’t anything but annoyed as he quietly clenching his fists at his side while Mycroft said, “It was a question and I have no problem with Miss Stoner.”

“Stop calling her that,” he ordered. Crossing his arms over his chest to ensure his own stillness against Mycroft, Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he told him rather proudly, “Even mummy calls her Helen.”

“Perhaps that’s because Mummy is more concerned with where you put your prick than I am. Especially when you’re putting it in the help,” Mycroft said, gesturing at Sherlock’s crotch with an obvious disinterest. Picking up his book again, he paused before adding, almost like an afterthought, “Or, trying to anyways.”

With that Mycroft flipped back to the page he had been reading, eyes scanning the pages quickly before turning the page. Narrowing his eyes as he watched him, Sherlock smirked, a laugh slowly escaping his lips as continued to be ignored by his brother. “Is that what this is? You being jealous?”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said, never once looking up at him.

“You have no other reason to dislike her because she’s a lovely girl.”

“Who scarcely does the work she’s meant to because she’s always finding herself with a rambunctious little boy all over her,” he said, giving Sherlock a pointed look.

Lifting his chin, he stared down his nose at Mycroft. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“She also has work she’s meant to be doing. If she wanted to get paid to pleasure you, perhaps she ought consider work as a call girl,” Mycroft sneered at him. Before turning back to his book. “I hear they make lovely money.”

Sherlock idly thought that if Mycroft was to get any more annoyed, he might very well rip the pages he was violently turning as he sped through the book instead of taking his time to read like he usually did when alone or whenever he had read Sherlock a story as a boy. Speed reading was something that his brother usually reserved for work.

Shaking it off, he reminded himself that he wasn’t around for the purpose of watching Mycroft read, long fingers flicking through page after page when he was meant to be relaxing, judging by the fact that he had taken the time to slip his braces off his shoulders. He was meant to be pissed at the bastard for being cruel to Helen because she didn’t deserve it and he wasn’t going to stand by it. If Mycroft was upset at him, he could take it out on him.

So knocking the book out of his brother’s hands again, he told him, “You know what, Mycroft, you don’t get to act this way.”

“And what way is that?” Mycroft snapped.

“Jealous and spiteful. You know why I like her? Why mummy and everyone else but you likes her?”

“Oh don’t tell me mummy wants to sleep with her as well,” groaned Mycroft, rolling his eyes

“It’s because she’s nice and wonderful and smart. Most importantly, she wants me.” Pointing an accusing finger at his brother, he added in a hushed tone, “You, on the other hand, scarcely wanted to speak to me and the feeling is mutual, I assure you. But none of that gives you the right to act like a berk to her because she’s done nothing to you and shouldn’t have to deal with those misplaced feelings you try so desperately to repress.”

Face gone blank, Mycroft merely arched a brow at him before asking, “Are you done?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said as he turned on his heel to head back inside. “I have a date to get ready for.”

Even if his date wasn’t for hours still, Sherlock rather enjoyed the chance to toss such a fact in his brother’s face as he walked away. Let him seethe out there with his little book, Sherlock thought rather merrily. It wasn’t until he was back in the safety of his own room did he remember the fact that Helen had been tidying up the study and while he was more than certain that she should’ve been done, he couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for possibly sending an upset Mycroft her way.

Certainly he didn’t bother leaving his room, instead occupying his time with studying up on plants until he felt it was a good enough time to finally a good time to get ready. Moving through the rather mechanical motions of showering and trying to pick out the right thing to wear, he tried to put his brother out of his thoughts since he wasn’t meant to be letting that intrusive walrus of a man interfere with his life anymore.

Not that Mycroft seemed to have gotten such a memo, gently knocking on his open bedroom door with a knuckle.

Looking up at him, Sherlock fought the urge to cover up the fact that he was standing there in his pants. The man had already seen him naked so any sense of modesty was entirely foolish. Still, crossing his arms over his chest, he asked, “What are you doing in here?”

“I wanted to catch you before your date so that we could talk,” Mycroft said as he walked in, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t even pretend to wait for an invitation, although Mycroft likely knew that it wasn’t likely to come.

Swallowing, Sherlock turned his attention back to the clothes he was trying to decide on, the choice becoming a lot easier to make with Mycroft sitting on the edge of his bed. Putting on his trousers, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“We have nothing to talk about, Mycroft,” he said calmly, the added layer of clothes also providing an added level of comfort to him.

“I don’t know about that,” Mycroft said as he straightened the bedding. “There’s always Helen.”

“You’re a complete bastard to her for no reason. Rather short talk, that.”

“Yes, but I was thinking about what you said and… You’re wearing that?”

Looking from his brother to the blue shirt in his hand, Sherlock nodded. “Why not? It’s clean.”

“It looks terrible?” When Sherlock only gave him a confused look before glancing back at the rest of his clothes, Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. “Wear the black one. It has a certain…beneficial quality.”

“It’s black. All it does is make me look pale,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. He knew his brother to be petty, but making him look like a twat on a date was certainly a level of passive aggressiveness he wouldn’t have even attributed to his brother.

Getting up, Mycroft walked over to wear Sherlock stood. Looking through his dresser, he pulled out the shirt, frowning about the fact that it was lightly wrinkled. The only thing that likely prevented him from commenting on it was the fact that most of Sherlock’s clothes were that way.

Holding it out to his brother, he told him, “It suits you. Dark clothes on your complexion look nice and it draw even more attention to your face.”

“My face?”

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft looked almost pained at the question. It was only after he’d taken a moment to take a deep breath that he said, “Your eyes stand out. That and your… Cheekbones that could cut a diamond and those curls…” Trailing off, he shoved the shirt at Sherlock a bit angrily.  “You’re fairly attractive to most.”

Grabbing the shirt, Sherlock looked away nervously. Mycroft was standing far too close to him and smelled of flowers and tea, a combination that made his stomach lurch violently. Swallowing, he jerked the shirt out of Mycroft’s grip a bit more forcefully than intended as he tried to get control of his traitorous body.

“We were talking about Helen,” he muttered quietly.

Nodding in agreement, Mycroft flashed a brief smile before busying himself with straightening out the collection of animal bones on Sherlock’s dresser. “I have been cruel to her and unjustly so. She seems like a very nice girl, to be perfectly honest.”

“So why have you been such an unbearable arse towards her?” Sherlock asked as he put on the shirt as quickly as he could.

It was the only real defense he had against the way Mycroft’s eyes kept falling on him before quickly tunring away, lingering a bit longer each time. Even if it was nothing, it was enough to make Sherlock heart race as he turned toward the mirror, clumsy fingers making the best work of his buttons before haphazardly tucking his shirt in.

Licking his lips, Mycroft clenched his fists at his side before giving in to some unknown force, saying, “That looks awful. I would’ve assumed you knew how to tuck in a shirt by now.”

“It’s a date. My goal isn’t to keep the shirt on all night,” Sherlock said miserably, given that even he knew he’d done a rather crap job at getting himself dressed. Not that it was his fault, what with Mycroft just lurking at his side like he was.

“Here.” Moving to stand behind him, Mycroft rested a hand on Sherlock side. Loosely gripping his shirt, Mycroft watched him carefully through the mirror as he asked, “May I?”

“If it will get you out of here faster, go ahead,” Sherlock said.

It was meant to be snide and snappish, but if Mycroft noticed the breathless tone in his brother’s voice, he didn’t say anything about it. And Sherlock returned the favour by not commenting on the way Mycroft pressed a little too close to him, fingers occasionally brushing against skin as he untucked his brother’s shirt.

“I do like her,” Mycroft muttered, his breath a gentle caress along Sherlock’s neck. Words that seemed almost distant and meaningless as Mycroft unbuttoned the shirt with far more care than necessary. “She seems sweet.”

Swallowing as he tried to keep himself upright rather than lean into the warm heat of his brother, Sherlock stared blindly at the animal bones as he tried to find the ability to form words. “So what is your problem?”

“You,” Mycroft said casually, unbothered by their proximity or the way his fingers brushed along Sherlock’s chest as fixed the front of his shirt before buttoning.“Going about snogging pretty young girls in my bedroom is something I never actually considered I might come home to find.”

“I didn’t know you’d be back.” Turning to look at Mycroft, Sherlock stilled when he found his mouth a hair’s breadth away from Mycroft’s. Biting his lip as he eyes darted from his brother’s mouth to his eyes, he all but whispered, “I wasn’t trying to torment you.”

For a long moment, Sherlock was certain that something horrible was going to happen. Licking his lips, Mycroft stared at his mouth as well, only to turn his focus towards tucking Sherlock’s shirt in properly, finding the ability to talk as though nothing was wrong.

“But you do. You act like a spoiled child, always throwing tantrums and saying such horrible things because…” Pausing in his task, Mycroft watched him, hand heavy and hot against Sherlock’s thigh. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t give into you like you wanted?”

Smiling somewhat bitterly to himself, Sherlock nodded. The tension in his gut gave way to hurt easily under Mycroft’s comment, the motion of his brother helping him dress no longer the blood boiling experience it had been mere moments ago as Mycroft set about buttoning his trousers.

“So you’re jealous of Helen.”

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, Mycroft said, “As jealous as you would be of someone in my life.”

“I suppose it’s good that you rarely have someone,” Sherlock pointed out without the usual biting wit he tried to apply to his comments.

Mycroft remained forever unbothered by such a thing, shrugging at the idea as he dusted Sherlock off. “I simply dislike the fact that you seem to hate me as of late. I can handle the occasional bit of cruelty from you, but there’s scarcely a pleasant moment between us. It makes me regret that entire ordeal even more.”

And that was far more than Sherlock could take. Turning around violently, Sherlock stared at his brother, blue eyes brimming with anger and pain as he stared at him disbelievingly. “How would you feel if you were the one being rejected? Being called a deviant and a pervert? You act as though I chose to feel this way, that I would truly want you willingly over everyone else. And when I thought it might be alright because you said you felt the same, you said.”

“I was drunk,” Mycroft said, almost sadly. “I likely would’ve said anything.”

“Well, I wasn’t. I meant everything I said to you because I do want you.” Holding up a hand to silence Mycroft, Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing on, telling him, “I know it’s wrong and sick, but if I had to do it all over again, I would. Fearing someone might find out about my feelings is worth the condemnation when I know I’ve done something more to warrant it than having a crush. Even if it came at the cost of you hating me.”

“I could never hate you,” Mycroft said, lifting his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek only to stop himself.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock told himself he wasn’t disappointed. That he didn’t expect anything else from Mycroft because he honestly didn’t. It was just the way Mycroft was and the odd sense of disappointment he felt was Sherlock’s own fault for believing that Mycroft might actually do what he wanted instead of tormenting him.

When he reopened his eyes, he had a small smile on his face. Cupping the back of Mycroft’s neck just to feel the warmth of his skin, Sherlock told him, “And I don’t hate you. See? Everything’s all fixed now, isn’t it?”

Eyes narrowing, Mycroft ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair, hand determinedly cupping the back of his skull. For a long moment neither of them moved and Sherlock was certain that if they simply stayed like that forever, he’d be happy. He could be content with that moment. But instead, his eyes caught sight of the time and he was only too quick to jerk away from his brother as he swore.

“Bugger. I’m going to be late.” Grabbing his jacket, he started to head out only to pause to look back at Mycroft. The man was still standing by his dresser, watching him as though he was the most confusing puzzle known to man. If he felt he could’ve expected anything more than another almost from Mycroft, he would’ve felt worse as he asked him, “Are we done here?”

Snapping back to reality, Mycroft nodded. “Of course. I’d hate for you to keep her waiting.”

“Grand.”

Without a second thought, he made his way out, quietly telling himself that he made the right choice leaving his brother standing there. If not for the fact that he was certain that Mycroft was only going to let him down again, then for the simple matter of teaching him how it felt to be left to quietly pine for something that wasn’t going to happen ever again.


	6. The Prayer

The fact that it didn’t last with Helen wasn’t what annoyed Sherlock most. No, they had both known it wasn’t meant to be more than a summer’s tryst. His issues rested almost entirely in the timing. In  the fact that it wasn’t his lack of interest or the fading summer days that caused the sudden end, but rather, a compliment. One compliment during that ill-fated date about how nice his shirt was that had his mind focused on Mycroft even more so when he knew he should’ve been focused on her. A problem that didn’t lessen in the week it took him to realize that somehow Mycroft had become his focus yet again.

And while it was an amicable split, given the utter expectedness of it all, the aftermath left him a scowling mess, growing angrier with each day that passed because, almost as though he had planned it all, Mycroft had chosen then to become a scarcity. It was something Sherlock appreciated during the week leading up to his break up, only to find it utterly repulsive in the week to follow. After all, the man come into Sherlock’s room, tempting and apologetic, and then retreated into his old method of avoidance, likely too much a coward to actually act on something Sherlock was almost certain they had both wanted. Even worse was the fact that, unlike with his birthday, Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if his own spitefulness, his need to walk off and show Mycroft what it felt like to be left wanting, was to blame.

It was all that and even more that Sherlock refused to consider that likely led him to wandering into Mycroft’s room. A strange habit that he had taken up, always for the sake of finding some nebulous thing that he could never find, he would tear through his brother’s room only to put everything back again when he decided that whatever it was he desired wasn’t there.

And it was only after surveying the disaster he had made of his brother’s room, exhausted from throwing things around and muttering angrily about it to himself the entire time that Sherlock unwillingly found himself lying in his brother’s bed. Not that he had started lying down, no. He had sat down, only to find himself lying in the room, the setting sun making his eyes sting.

Yet when he sat up again, quite suddenly after being hit with something, it was dark. Feeling around the bed, he frowned when he discovered the object that had woken him up was none other than a wallet, something he was ready to question when someone spoke.

“Is there a reason you’re in my bed?” Mycroft asked as he toed off his shoes.

It was a fair enough question that Sherlock met with a question of his own, immediately asking, “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting. Much like I’ve done for most of summer.”

“You haven’t visited in nearly two weeks,” he pointed out, the words sounding a bit more upset than he would’ve liked.

“I know,” Mycroft said with a sigh. Unbuttoning his jacket, he shrugged it off tiredly before placing it on his dresser instead of hanging it up. Hooking his thumbs under his braces, he slipped those off as well, apparently quite willing to strip regardless of Sherlock’s presence. “There were minor problems at work. Now, back to my question?”

Swallowing, Sherlock shook his head. “I was looking for something.”

“Yes. That explains the state of my room rather well,” Mycroft said as he surveyed the mess that laid on his floor.

Looking around for himself, Sherlock actually felt quite bad for the papers, books and clothes that lay like a minefield of hazards needing to be crossed if one wanted to get around. He knew what he had been doing at the time of his entirely futile search, but he also figured that he’d have a chance to clean it up before anyone took notice. Certainly he had thought that he even if he took he precious time in the matter he’d have had it done before Mycroft turned up once again.

Fidgeting slightly, he looked up at Mycroft who was staring at the myriad of obstacles in front of him like it was a problem that needed to be solved. Loosening his tie, Mycroft took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as he looked to the ceiling, falling back slightly to rest against the door.

“You’re drunk,” Sherlock stated with a scoff.

Lowering his gaze to glare at him, Mycroft said, “Or I’m dreading moving across the mess you made of my floor.”

“You’re drunk.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Mycroft pushed himself away from the door, hesitating slightly as he looked over the mess once again before beginning to make his way to the bed, careful to avoid the larger objects. It took much longer than it should have, Mycroft occasionally coming to a stop to look around him despite the small distance that actually rested between the door and the bed, but he continued on until he reached his destination, falling onto the bed with a rather victorious smirk.

Smiling back at him, Sherlock shook his head. “You’re drunk.”

“Not entirely,” Mycroft scoffed as though the level of his inebriation took away from Sherlock’s observation. Lying on his back, he closed his eyes as he began to unbutton his shirt, often pausing in the process as though even that was too much work. “And why does it matter? Planning to take advantage of me?”

Rolling his eyes at the comment, Sherlock looked away, grimacing slightly at the faint chuckling coming from his brother.

“No. You have Helen for that.”

“No I don’t,” he sneered. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock chanced a look at his brother, noting the curious, yet hazy blue eyes staring at him in the darkness. “We ended things not long after that date you helped me get ready for.”

Mycroft furrowed his brows in thought, a look of concern on his face as he untucked his shirt to finish unbuttoning it. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you’re not,” Sherlock said, surprised that Mycroft actually had the gall to utter such a thing as he certainly didn’t look sorry. No once he had himself free of that shirt, he was lying down once again, looking like the horribly grotesque cat that caught the canary. “You’re the one who ruined everything.”

“All the way from London?”

“By being you.” Running a hand through his hair anxiously, Sherlock let his shoulder’s fall in defeat. Weeks of annoyance with his brother and himself and everything else in the world morphing into some nameless, hollow feeling that felt as though it was trying to consume him. “You couldn’t have just left well enough alone, could you? You had to choose that night to ruin everything?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow. Did my apology somehow cause the end of your affair with Ms Stoner?”

“Is that what you call it? An apology? Coming into my room and…” Pausing at the look of expectation on Sherlock’s face more than the actual memory, he sighed.

There was really no point in trying to explain it to Mycroft because he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing, every action somehow perfectly calculated and flawlessly executed in an effort to torment him. That clueless look in his eyes cutting deeper than any word could.

“That’s just you though, isn’t it? You decide to toy with me and then just change your mind about everything and disappear, leaving me to feel all these terrible things.”

“I rather believe you were the one who left to go on your date,” Mycroft stated.

“And now you’re blaming me as well?”

Laughing hollowly at him, Sherlock thought it rather fitting. It wasn’t enough that even while drunk, Mycroft seemed to have the strength of mind to find fault in him. No, if anything that just proved that perhaps his brother wasn’t as drunk as he appeared. What struck Sherlock straight to his core was the idea that Mycroft was blaming him for doing nothing as easily as he blamed him for causing everything.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said sarcastically, “But I don’t know what you want me to say. If you expect me to be apologetic you’re going to have to give me a better reason than the end of that little tryst you had with the help.”

“You’re a condescending arse.”

If there was some sort of biting remark that Mycroft meant to make, it never came. He only closed his eyes tiredly, a small smile tugging at his lips, as though he had every intention of simply falling asleep then and there before muttering, “Jealousy makes fickle beasts of us all, I’m afraid.”

Eyes widening in the darkness in shock, the emotion was quickly overrun by confusion. Brows knit together, Sherlock shook Mycroft roughly, unbothered by the annoyed look it earned him. “I thought you weren’t though. You don’t have feelings for me because they’re wrong and disturbed and very inappropriate.”

“Clearly you should avoid work in politics and justice if you can’t even tell when someone is lying to you,” he said, shoving Sherlock’s hand away with a roll of his eyes.

Watching him curl up on his side, Sherlock was more than ready to harass his brother until he got all the answers he was after if the man tried to fall asleep again, but Mycroft didn’t Instead he simply curled up on his side, clutching at the pillow under his head as he stared back at his younger brother.

In a strange way, he looked harmless. There was nothing inherently threatening about a drunk, still in his clothes for the day, curled up in bed. And no matter how much Sherlock wanted to believe that, to brush the errant strands of hair from his brother’s face, he also knew that Mycroft was like a snake that way. Nothing ever seemed inherently evil about him, but then he’d strike out with cruel words and complete avoidance, leaving Sherlock to tend to his own wounds, feeling all the guiltier for something he knew he couldn’t actually help.

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock looked away from the deceptively innocent man at his side. “You made me feel like a monstrosity for everything I felt.”

“I was trying to spare you,” Mycroft said without a hint of remorse.

“Spare me? Mycroft, you’ve done nothing but cause me pain.”

“I know,” he admitted quietly. Resting his hand on Sherlock’s leg, Mycroft kept his focus there, gently tugging at the fabric every so often. “It wasn’t the intent, mind you. I merely wanted you to get over this stupid crush of yours because if you did that, it remove any and all temptation from my life.”

To hear such a thing sounded logical and, perhaps, even a bit reasonable if one were to look at it as the grand problem Mycroft seemed to view the situation as. But Sherlock only saw it in terms of one thing as he scoffed. “Right. Make me do all the work while you reap the benefits.”

“Something like that,” Mycroft said with a soft chuckle. A brief moment before his amusement faded as quickly as it came and Sherlock found himself taking note of the pain his brother actually bore as he continued, saying, “But then I come home and while I should be happy that you had found someone like Ms Stoner, all I could think about was just how close you two might’ve been.”

“You were jealous,” Sherlock stated in disbelief.

Shrugging it off as his careful façade of indifference slipped back into place, Mycroft told him, “It’s hard not to be when you find the object of your affection kissing some girl in your bed.”

“I told you it wasn’t intentional.”

“And yet it hurt all the same. Which was almost funny because you were doing what I wanted and it hurt all that much more since I knew I could’ve had you. We could’ve been together, doomed though that effort would be.”

“Who’s to say it would be doomed?” Sherlock snapped. “Why are you such a pessimist about this?”

“Because I know what us being together would mean. I have work, you still have school for the time being. Nothing we do could ever be public,” he said rattling off a list that certainly wasn’t being thought up on the spot, but rather had been considered time and time again until Mycroft could likely recite it in his sleep. “There would be no dates, no open expression of affection. Just a life of hiding everything about ourselves while the rest of the world looks on and wonders why it is two perfectly functional men aren’t in a relationship with someone.”

“That’s nothing more than crap reasoning and you know it,” Sherlock pointed out bitterly.

After all, all those things that Mycroft listed were the type of things that one might apply to a normal relationship and by simply wanting each other they were long past such a point. His brother, for all his brilliance, failed to take into consideration that they weren’t normal cases. That if they were willing enough to be open in their affections, even to each other, they had already signed off on their willingness to live a life of secrecy and lies. And while he knew Mycroft to be cautious in everything he undertook, Sherlock didn’t think he was so cautious as to avoid rational assumptions.

Smoothing out the fabric along Sherlock’s leg, Mycroft shook his head as he practically whispered, “You aren’t going to want me forever.”

“How very insecure of you.”

“I’m being serious,” he practically growled. Moving his hand away from Sherlock, he balled his hand into a fist as though that would remove temptation, saying, “You’re seventeen. You ought be off enjoying the follies of youth.”

“Poetic.” Lying back down on his side, so that he could face his brother, Sherlock finally allowed himself to brush the hair out of Mycroft’s face, smiling to himself when it fell back into place. “It’s sentimental, even. But I’ve already decided that I want you to be that folly.”

“Oh joy,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes at being described as such.

“I’m serious.” Licking his lips nervously, he stared at Mycroft for a long moment, debating the words that weighed heavily in his throat before taking the risk of saying, “I don’t want anyone else. I’ve tried it all and it’s not the same. No one gets me or makes me feel the way you do and I’d cut off the entire world for you.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I’m not.”

The fact that Mycroft had no quick witted retort to that was a double edged blade. Any pleasure derived from finally catching his brother off guard tarnished by the continued silence that seemed to thicken between them. All he could do was wait quietly to see if Mycroft might respond well or curse his sickening feelings yet again, the knots in his stomach tightening with every passing moment.

Nodding slowly, Mycroft seemed a bit stunned, either by the remark or his own thoughts. “So that’s your choice? You’d choose me and all the complications that would come from such a thing for… reasons I can’t begin to understand?”

“Yes.”

Cupping Mycroft’s cheek, he thought to chance of kiss, leaning closer to his brother. It was only a small gap that lay between them, easy enough to close, but the smell of liquor on Mycroft’s breath made him pause as he realized that he might’ve been his own greatest problem after all.

“Of course you’re drunk and I’m certain that by morning you won’t remember this, or you’ll claim not to. Try and forget this conversation ever happened as soon as I leave,” he said, letting his hand fall away sadly.

After all, he didn’t merely want his brother to be willing under the influence of alcohol. He wanted Mycroft to like him, regardless of his mental state. To settle for anything else might cause pleasure briefly, but in the long run it would only cause more problems for him given that Mycroft seemed quite more adept at denying himself what he wanted.

Even worse, the man didn’t deny it. No, his brother nodded in agreement with him only too quickly. “Maybe. But that rather seems like incentive for you not to leave. After all, you’re already in here.”

“What about mummy?”

“If she catches us and asks I’ll tell her I came in late and was rather drunk. Didn’t notice you. Heaven knows you sleep like the dead.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock said, “I meant long term.”

“Whether or not there is a long term, we will be discreet because no one can ever know, Sherlock.”

And even though it was given as a statement, Sherlock could see that Mycroft was asking him if he was truly certain about what he was about to agree to. It wasn’t going to be a normal relationship by far as there was no saying they’d even see each other any more than they typically did. Everything between would essentially be built up of  beautiful little moments together if it worked and a lifetime of agony if it didn’t because Mycroft wasn’t a boy who could be easily forgotten.

At the end of the day they’d always be brothers first, which served as an added weight of misery if things went wrong between them as Mummy would still expect her boys to visit and there’d be no one to confess their misery to as that would only give away the secret they were committing themselves to.

But given the idea that Mycroft would be willing to even try was enough to make Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Alright. We’ll be discreet.”

“Good,” Mycroft said as though they had just brokered some sort of business deal. Though, he supposed they had in a way. Closing his eyes again, he told him, “Now, I am exhausted and would like nothing more than to sleep, so goodnight.”

“Night, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, curling against his brother’s chest.

After all, Mycroft already had a plan for if Mummy or anyone else was to find them. There was no point in leaving when he had been there first either. His staying definitely had nothing to do with him wanting to make the most of the moment in case Mycroft was just toying with him again. Not when Mycroft willing draped an arm over his waist and tugged him closer.


	7. I Was A Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to get done for some reason. Sorry about that.

While he knew that Sherlock and his vague, ill-defined goals for their relationship were nothing more than childish ideation that was bound to lead to disappointment sooner or later, Mycroft rather quickly found that Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was bound to be out of depth with their little experiment. It had only been two weeks since he had drunkenly agreed to do what Sherlock wanted, because if he believed that he was drunker than he had been it somehow made it better. As though waking up to Sherlock in his arms, curled against his side like he had been in the hotel that night, was somehow more acceptable because it was the consequence of too much drinking.

Every twisted little moment between them seemed to be that. The consequence of too much alcohol, a bitter study in Newton’s third law of motion. Or Murphy’s Law, depending on how he decided to look at it.

Nevertheless, the fact remained that neither of them knew exactly what it was they were meant to be doing. Two weeks and they were still exactly as they had been, although there seemed to be some sort of tenuous agreement to the fact that whatever they felt for each other was entirely mutual and that neither of them were trying to fight the feeling anymore.

But, like in the aftermath of a war, the agreement did nothing to stop the years of habitual behaviour that had formed. Every moment that got too intimate, every touch that lingered too long, every time they sat too close was still met with the same method of retreat that it had been before. It was enough to make Mycroft dread visiting home by that second week since he was certain even Sherlock know that whatever it was between them wasn’t working like it should’ve been; that there was no point of soldiering on if every moment between them was to be tempered by fears that rested heavily at Mycroft’s feet.

By time Saturday came around, though, his conscience seemed to get the better of him and he found himself leaving the comforts of his flat and London for a visit to his family home and a brother he couldn’t figure out what to do with after so many years of wanting him.

It seemed to take forever to get there and by time he found himself walking through the threshold, search an empty entrance with trepidation, he couldn’t help but think he had made a grave mistake in so many ways yet again. Dragging his finger along his lower lip as he stared ahead, Mycroft was sorely tempted to leave without a word and to just call Sherlock when he got. Call him and come up with some pathetic lie about how work had come up or a social obligation. Something cleverly weak so that with enough time Sherlock would see it for the lie that it was and get the hint so that he might force Mycroft’s hand into backing out or moving forward.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

Turning toward the voice, Mycroft forced a smile as he walked over to his mother. Hugging her, he belatedly remembered that there was more than Sherlock awaiting him in the home. If he let his fears keep him away, he’d be avoiding his mother as well and she had done nothing to earn that other than have two warped sons.

“I had a matter come up,” he said as he released her. “It caused a rather small delay.”

Nodding, Mummy stroked his cheek, a small moue of discontent on her face as she did. “Is something wrong? You’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to your mother, Mycroft. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“I’m fine though,” he said, earnestly trying to make heer believe him.

Not that it ever stood a chance of working. Narrowing her eyes at him, she simply shook her head in disagreement and told him, “Don’t lie to me, mon petit prince. I know the your every look from the tiniest quirk of your lips to every movement of your brows. I know you inside and out and you’re not happy. So why is that?”

Licking his lips, Mycroft ducked his head as he let out a sad laugh. For all that he worked to be undecipherable, his mother always seemed to see through it all. He was certain she could read him and Sherlock and most everyone else as easily as a child’s book, a fact that made him feel worse for the way he felt about his younger brother for her sake.

“I uh… Relationship problems.”

“Boy problems,” she said with a small smile because, while Mycroft tried to speak of his romantic life in the most diplomatic terms possible with everyone, his mother always corrected him. She called it what it was without hesitation, likely in hopes that one day he might feel comfortable enough with what he felt to be level with her, at the very least.

It was rather funny in a serious way given that he knew that he would never actually be able to give her the honesty she sought to create between the two of them. Not now that his latest romantic entanglement was with his brother.

Still, he nodded, wincing slightly as he did given that it was young girls who had boy problems, not him. “Yes. I… The person I like is… They’ve all but forced me into this relationship.”

“Mycroft…”

“No. Forced is a bad word. I did agree, but I don’t know. I’m nervous about it. I don’t… I don’t know why I continuously make these terrible decision.”

“Perhaps you’re frantically fighting the fact that deep down in your heart you know you’re straight?” She suggested sarcastically. Forcing him to look up from the ground to her, she ran her hand through his hair, tousling it until that annoying comma of hair hung in his face the way she seemed to adore. Smiling, she cupped his cheeks and sighed. “Do you like him?”

“More than I should.”

“Romance isn’t about should, Mycroft,” she chastised. “If you like him, you like him. And you continue to do so until you stop liking him or you love him. See? Simple.”

Biting his tongue, Mycroft nodded. It should’ve been that simple, but it wasn’t and even worse he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t just explain that the reason he couldn’t like the person he did was because incest was universally frowned upon and Sherlock was too young to see the lack of logic in everything he wanted.

Patting his cheek, she added, “Perhaps this time around I’ll even get to meet him.”

“No,” he said quickly. Moving away from his mother, he smiled a bit more freely, feeling better despite the panic her words had induced in him. Taking a deep breath, he told her, “I don’t think it’s going to work out, actually. I like him, but not enough. Ending things would be best.”

“Mycroft, don’t do this to yourself again.”

Furrowing his brows, he merely shook his head again and told her, “It’s for the better.”

At that she rolled her eyes. “Like how letting that soldier you were in love with go was for the better?”

“Mummy…” Trailing off, since he didn’t want to have another argument over his dating choices, Mycroft decided to let it go. Instead, he merely pointed toward the stairs as he gave her a pointed look and said, “I’m going to go lie down. It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted.”

“Maybe you should settle down and marry a nice girl. Heaven knows you’re never satisfied with the male population.”

Scoffing, he did his best to hide his smirk as he asked her, “Speaking of romantic entanglements, shouldn’t you be calling that man you keep in France?”

“Go lie down and get some rest until dinner,” she said, waving him away. “I’ll just busy myself talking to that man I keep in France. Perhaps I’ll tell him that his child speaks of him like some illicit affair.”

“Be sure to specify or he’ll think you mean Sherlock,” he suggested.

Attempting to seem displeased by the comment, she pinched his side as she gave him her sternest look.

It was the sort of silent command to behave that he knew he could ignore, though he still gave his best defeated look before beating a hasty retreat. If nothing else, the conversation, no matter how limited, made him feel better in a way only speaking to his mother did. Certainly it helped him come to a decision on what it was he intended to about Sherlock. The only matter left was to act on his decision, something he was certain could wait until after a nap given that he hadn’t been lying when he said he was exhausted.

Almost as soon as he had made his way to his room and laid down on his bed, he seemed to find himself asleep for what felt like merely a few glorious moments before he was disturbed. The odd dip of someone kneeling on his bed and the smell of chemicals gave away who was even before his brother took to flicking at his nose in the most annoying manner.

Opening his eyes to glare at him, Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. “What do you want?”

“You missed dinner,” he stated bluntly, hands resting in his lap as he continued to kneel at Mycroft’s side. “Mummy wanted to wake you for it, but I convinced her that you could stand to skip a meal or ten.”

“You’re too kind,” Mycroft sneered.

Looking off toward the window, Sherlock did his best to remain impassive as he spoke, though his eyes gave away his annoyance. “I was almost certain you weren’t going to show. Usually you’re here Friday night.”

“Yes, well, I almost didn’t.”

Nodding quietly, Sherlock furrowed his brows, lips pressed in a thin line as he sat there. “Well, two weeks is longer than I expected you to go along with this, I suppose.”

“What?” Mycroft asked as he sat up, rubbing at his eyes rather tiredly.

“You really don’t like me. Or you still don’t want to. It was just another drunken moment when you agreed to date me and now, well… It was only a matter of time before you changed your mind, I suppose.”

Watching Sherlock explain his reasoning, back straight as could be as he tried to maintain some sort of semblance of indifference, as though he didn’t seem crushed over the idea of being rejected again, made Mycroft want to look away. Even before he grew to have such perverse feelings for his brother, he could never stand to see the boy upset.

Cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck, Mycroft kissed him without hesitation or restraint. There was nothing that could even come close to being brotherly in the way he worked his tongue’s way into Sherlock’s mouth. And when Sherlock’s shock seemed to fade, he managed to kiss back just as eagerly, somehow finding himself straddling his brother’s hips when he finally turned his head away, breath coming a bit quicker, though it had little to do with the blush on his cheeks.

Stuttering through a dozen aborted words, Sherlock stared at his hands that rested against Mycroft’s chest. It was a look he wasn’t used to seeing on his brother’s face, utterly lost and confused with no idea of what he was meant to say or do. And while he was only to ready to memorize such a look, Mycroft also found himself hoping that he could make such a look happen many more times to come.

“I adore you. I’ve told you as much, I think. Even if I haven’t, I’m not backing out of this,” he said, resting his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Brushing a thumb along his brother’s pelvis, he smiled to himself. “There’s no point in going back to how we were. That was ruined the night we…”

“Kissed?”

“Had sex.”

After all, a kiss was nothing if not forgettable after a while. There would be more, some better than others, given enough time. And if he had been allowed to, Mycroft was certain that he could, at the very least, pretend to forget about Sherlock’s lips against his own. It was the idea of the boy, his brother underneath him that wasn’t so easily cast aside.

Anxiously shifting, Sherlock began to toy with the top button of Mycroft’s shirt, occasionally looking up at him to see if he’d complain about the fondness that had scarcely been there moments before, let alone when they’d first come to their understanding. “So… What? You’re done fighting this?”

“More or less.”

“You said that last time,” Sherlock pointed out without hesitation.

Not that Mycroft blamed him for his caution. If anything, he was almost happy to see Sherlock finally exercising any form of it given the eagerness with which he had been approaching everything beforehand. Of course, he would’ve thought that his obvious sobriety would’ve counted toward his clear intentions, rather than against it.

“I mean it this time.”

“Or you’re toying with me and I’m going to get hurt.” Unbuttoning the top of button of Mycroft’s shirt, Sherlock carefully parted the fabric to drag his fingers along the bit of hair he found there. “Not that I don’t trust you or anything.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said as he rolled his eyes. Grabbing Sherlock’s hand, he watched as Sherlock refused to look at him for a long moment before finally staring at him through his lashes. With a small frown, he asked helplessly, “What do you want me to say? This isn’t easy and you know that. If you don’t you’re being delusional.”

“All I want is for you to like me back and maybe to have a semi-decent relationship with you. How is that delusional?”

“I’m still your brother,” he pointed out with a sigh. He didn’t even know why he bothered given how little Sherlock seemed to care about such a fact.

He merely pressed his lips together in a thin line as he pressed a firm finger into the hollow between Mycroft’s collarbones. “And that makes this delusional?”

“No. Your denial of all that could go wrong does.”

At that, Sherlock looked up toward the ceiling, a heavy sigh escaping him as he did. “I get it. I do, but why dwell on that when I have you sprawled out on your back and your hair all messed up?” He asked with a small shrug of his shoulders. He even rocked his hips slowly against Mycroft’s to emphasize his point, one which Mycroft was tempted to give into.

After all, whether it was youthful optimism or refusing to dwell on future possibilities, Sherlock was clearly not about to be bothered by anything other than the moment they found themselves in. He seemed intent on enjoying their relationship, no matter how brief. It was a skill that Mycroft envied as he forced himself to grip Sherlock’s hips in an effort to make him stop.

“One day, when you aren’t seventeen, you’ll realize that a relationship is more than the sexual gratification you can get from another person,” he said, glaring pointedly at Sherlock, given that they were meant to be having a serious conversation.

Hands going back to rest against Mycroft’s shoulders, Sherlock leaned forward until his lips hovered above Mycroft’s, the annoyed look in his eyes causing the elder Holmes to wonder if the boy even knew what he was doing. “I’m certain there are twenty-four year old men who realize that sexual gratification is still a rather nice thing. Besides, I never asked for sexual gratification.”

“Oh?”

“No,” Sherlock said as he sat up. Moving from on top of Mycroft to kneel next to him on the bed again, he added, “You’re fat and furry. You’re like a bear preparing for hibernation. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh to have the sexual appeal of a stick bug,” he sneered as he rolled his eyes at his brother.

Crossing his arms over his chest as he glared rather playfully, Sherlock said, “Freckles, fur and fat. That’s all you are at the end of the day.”

Which was such a Sherlock comment, he didn’t even bother to argue it. Mycroft merely forced himself out of his bed, pausing to stretch for a moment before heading out of his room. “I think I’m going to go eat something. You can go back to your room now.”

“And leave you to raid the pantry of everything we have? I think not,” Sherlock stated. Hopping off the bed, he quickly followed after his brother as though he truly did fear that Mycroft might leave the pantry completely barren if left alone.

Continuing on, pointedly focusing on anything that wasn’t the teenage boy at his side, Mycroft made his way to the kitchen, rummaging around for something to appease his craving for some nameless food he couldn’t quite find. All the while, Sherlock stood close buy, watching his every action like a hawk.

Growing tired of his brother’s small obsession, he turned on his heel toward him and asked, “Don’t you have an innocent animal to murder for the fun of it, you little psychopath?”

“I’m not a psychopath,” Sherlock shot back. “Psychopaths are mass murders and the like.”

“Oh yes. You’re more a high functioning sociopath, killing local animals for reasons that only make sense to you.”

“That’s not even a real thing,” he complained as he began to search through the fridge for himself. Pulling out a covered plate, he sat down on the counter. When he uncovered it, Mycroft was scarcely surprised to find that Sherlock had hidden biscuits when he never bothered to hide the occasional experiment he thought to keep there.

Taking one from him, Mycroft took a bite out of it before gesturing at him with it. “A high functioning sociopath who doesn’t believe in his own existence. How sad.”

“Are you this rude to everyone? Because if so, I’d rethink your career choices.”

“Only to you,” he said, flashing Sherlock a smug grin. Going back to his quest for the perfect thing to satisfy his hunger as he finished the biscuit, he hesitated before telling him, “You’re rather special that way.”

“I know,” Sherlock said as though it was obvious.

Scoffing at his brother’s self-centred behaviour, Mycroft leaned against the counter next to where he sat, staring at nothing as he took another biscuit from Sherlock. Pensively nibbling at it, he debated whether or not it would be worth the effort to simply cook something when he felt Sherlock prodding at his side. Looking toward him, he gave a worried look at the smile on the boy’s face.

“You see, all your worries are for nothing,” Sherlock said proudly. “I still find you to be overbearing, obnoxious and generally disgusting.”

“No wonder you like me. I’m likely the only one who finds your schoolyard flirting charming.”

“Arguing makes for better foreplay than actual romance, from what I find.” Taking a bite of a biscuit, Sherlock frowned in distaste before handing it off to Mycroft, who took it willingly. After all, there was likely nothing wrong with the cookie, merely Sherlock growing bored of the process of eating like only he was wont to do. Leaning back against the wall, Sherlock kicked his feet thoughtlessly, adding, “That or being shoved into an empty room.”

Giving Sherlock a worried look, since he could hardly tell if the boy was being serious or not, he decided not to take that moment to question just where Sherlock’s sexual exploration over the past few months had taken him. It was the type of question he knew would only have an unpleasant end and, honestly, he didn’t want to know anything about Sherlock’s sex life that didn’t involve him.


	8. Shock To Your System

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I've been gone for awhile. Have some french and sexy times as an apology.

It could be rather hard to tell if Sherlock was overjoyed or suspicious of the fact that he and Mycroft had somehow made their relationship work in the days, weeks and even months had followed their agreement. That, despite his brother’s initial misgivings on the matter, Mycroft had stuck with his word and he hadn’t backed out of whatever it was that they had.  He even kept visiting when he could until work and school got in the way of both of their lives. And perhaps, even more startling was the fact that they didn’t let that get in the way either. They still spoke, which was far more than they had ever really done in the past and Sherlock knew, for himself at least, that the level of monogamy they shared went unbroken.

In fact, it was that commitment and distance that had begun to eat away at Sherlock’s resilience until he found himself thinking of his brother in a completely different context. Not that he hadn’t been attracted to his brother physically, but to want and not have was somehow different when he knew that, if Mycroft was around, he could’ve had him. Even with Mycroft’s apparent reluctance to let things progress too quickly, even he was only human and Sherlock knew that the want to have his brother pressed against him, to explore every inch of the man’s body in a way he didn’t get to before, wasn’t simply the result of his hormones.

Still, there was only so much that could be done without occupying the same space and while it was easy enough to find relief by his own hand, it wasn’t the same and it wasn’t what he wanted at the end of the day. Yet, the world seemed to be entirely against such a thing and it wasn’t until Christmas holiday when he finally found himself with a chance to finally try and act on his desires and, even then, nothing seemed to go quite the way he hoped it might.

From the moment Mycroft arrived home, everyone seemed to want something from his brother or him. Mummy had questions about how their lives were going despite always checking in on the both of them and there was a particularly annoying soul back in London that seemed to call far too often to ask questions of his brother regarding some work problem Sherlock didn’t even pretend to be concerned with. Even their father had managed to ruin Sherlock’s chance to be alone with his brother after dinner by inviting them to his study to chat and given that the man had been away for the summer in France, neither of them really had much opportunity to say no.

Downing the shot of whisky he’d been given bitterly, Sherlock coughed miserably before looking at his empty glass with disdain. “What is this swill?”

“Scotch is as old as you. Show it some respect,” Siger said as he smiled in amusement.

“It’s terrible,” Sherlock complained as he set his glass aside. “As is the banal conversation you two are having.”

“You mean my inquiries as to the state of our grandmother’s health?” Mycroft questioned mouth downcast in a small frown as he looked at him.

And with all eyes on him, Sherlock knew he should’ve backed off. Of course, knowing and doing were two completely different things, so crossing his arms over his chest, he slumped in his chair a bit as he nodded. “Yes. You know the woman hasn’t kicked off yet, so why do you insist on questioning it?”

Rearing back, Mycroft gave him a disappointed look before rolling his eyes while their father watched on with a face as blank as a new canvas. Sherlock only chanced a small look at Siger before levelling a challenging look towards his brother. If their father was upset, he’d bide his time like a Venus Flytrap before striking and even facing Siger’s ire would be worth it if Mycroft would just take the hint.

“Fine.” Finishing off his drink, Mycroft almost immediately poured himself another before turning to their father and asking, “Dad, you are aware that Mummy invited the Hambletons around for Christmas, yes?”

“Christ,” Siger muttered. Brows lowering in confusion as he nursed his drink, he shook his head. “Is she punishing me for something?”

“Well, you did leave for France quite suddenly this past summer, leading most of the neighbours to believe that you had taken to keeping some young French trollop,” Sherlock pointed out with a cheeky grin.

Letting out a small groan, Siger pinched at the bridge of his nose as he gestured toward Sherlock with the glass in his other hand. “The only young French trollop I keep around is you and I certainly don’t take any great pleasure in that.”

“I’m telling Mummy that,” Sherlock complained half-heartedly.

“What? That dad just said he doesn’t like having you around, called you a French whore or implied there’s some sort of incestuous relationship between the two of you?” Mycroft questioned, giving them both rather concerned looks, though his gaze seemed to linger on Sherlock towards the end.

It was the sort of thing that Sherlock couldn’t resist smirking about, one eyebrow raised in a silent question as Siger contemplated what Mycroft said with a look of discomfort and pride at the various meanings packed into his offhanded comment. Leaning forward, he licked his lips before telling Mycroft, “You’re simply jealous you’re not his favourite.”

“I was his favourite for seven years before you came around,” Mycroft pointed out smugly. “Not to mention he’s not complaining about having me around.”

“So he’s an incestuous paedophile now?”

Letting out some discomforting noise, Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s childish question while their father scowled at his drink.

“Right. Before this conversation can go much further, I feel the need to stop it.” Finishing it off with a small frown of displeasure, given that the man hated rushing through anything, he placed his glass down before rising to his feet. “The Hambletons,” he started only to shake his head and sigh. “Right, I’m off to speak to your mum and read.”

“More the latter than the former, I presume?” Sherlock questioned, cheekily.

Not that he could ever fault his father for such a thing, given that he didn’t think any of them could actually convince the woman to change he mind if she didn’t care to. It was already quite the feet that the man could manage to avoid any number of Mummy’s little holiday parties without leaving the house, since Sherlock would have happily sold his soul to have such a talent if it meant no more inane conversations with his cousins every time.

And yet, Siger didn’t even make the slightest comment or reprimand for such a statement. Instead, he merely picked up whatever book it was he was reading as of late and looked at Mycroft, asking him, “Going up as well?”

“No. I think I may stay down here for a bit longer. Finish this off,” Mycroft said, swirling the contents of his drink around briefly.

“Fair enough,” Siger said with a nod before turning his focus towards his youngest son. “Sherlock, guard my scotch from Mycroft. Mycroft, protect my study from Sherlock.”

“Will do,” Mycroft agreed easily.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Sherlock scoffed at such a statement. “Why does he have to guard an entire room?”

“Three months after your sixth birthday when you decided to make a volcano. I still find bits and pieces of that in the dining room, mind you.”

“I was six,” Sherlock said, feeling as though there should’ve been a statute of limitations for bringing up such childish antics.

“And the bits of frog that riddled the garden last year?” Siger questioned, a vague look of disgust on his face as he recalled that.

“That was an unfortunate accident,” he muttered, frowning at the thought of it as well. “Not to mention, it was already dead.”

A point with Siger couldn’t really argue. Or perhaps, he simply didn’t want to. Either way, he tucked his book under his arm and waved to them both as he made his way out, telling them, “Goodnight boys. Don’t ruin anything.”

Sherlock watched as their father left, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he heard the door close behind the man. Not that he didn’t adore his father, he did, but after waiting all day, it was hard not to be obscenely pleased to finally be alone with Mycroft. Turning towards his brother, he opened his mouth, only to be cut off.

“For the record, I was enjoying talking to dad. It’s nice having him back,” Mycroft said, giving him a rather annoyed look.

Rising from his seat, Sherlock made his way over to Mycroft’s chair slowly. Running his hand through his brother’s hair, quietly noting that he had gotten it cut, he sulked at him before straddling his brother as best he could. “You’ve had all day to bond with everyone but me. That’s hardly fair.”

“He was wrong,” Mycroft stated calmly as he put his drink aside. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, he tutted softly to himself. “You’re not just a French trollop. You’re a self-absorbed, spoiled French trollop.”

“You enjoy every moment with me.”

“Do I now?” Mycroft questioned sarcastically.

Leaning into him, Sherlock began to unbutton Mycroft’s waistcoat before resting his hands against his brother’s sides. It was such a simple thing and yet Sherlock had been aching to do even that much for so long. “Yes. And it’s been ages since I last saw you.”

“You poor thing,” Mycroft teased as he lifted one hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw.

Letting himself be pulled toward him, Sherlock went along with it as Mycroft kissed him slowly and thoroughly. There was no rush to it, despite the fact that they had hardly seen each other as Mycroft simply didn’t allow it. There was no rushing his lazy kisses despite Sherlock’s best efforts. He could only go along with the way Mycroft explored his mouth, hand occasionally digging into Sherlock’s hip every time he started to rock against the elder Holmes. It was absolutely maddening and Sherlock wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.

Then there were the long fingers slipping button after button out of their hole until Mycroft could part Sherlock’s shirt enough to reach his throat. Biting down on his lip, Sherlock gripped at Mycroft’s hair as his brother began to kiss and suck at the crook of his neck, his shirt falling off a slim shoulder as though to give the elder Holmes even more access.

Swallowing convulsively, Sherlock leaned away from his brother’s mouth. Meeting the confused look in Mycroft’s eyes, he muttered, “Je te veux.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Non,” Sherlock muttered. Brushing his lips his brother’s jaw, his nipped at Mycroft’s earlobe. “Je veux de vous avoir. Maintenant.”

The harsh exhale of air his brother let out as he gripped Sherlock’s hips was far more telling than any words would ever be. Moving to look Sherlock in the eyes, Mycroft stared at him for a long moment before finally said, “Christ. What happened to you not wanting me for sex or thinking me a fat and unattractive?”

Straightening his shirt as best he could without buttoning it up again, Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps I like fat unattractive Englishmen.”

Nodding along with the comment, since he couldn’t have actually expected a serious answer, Mycroft seemed to hesitate before finally shaking his head. Hands dropping from Sherlock’s hips, he told him, “The answer is still no. Mummy and dad are upstairs and anyone can catch us in here. We’re meant to be careful and sex in dad’s study isn’t that.”

“I’m not asking you to bend me over the sofa and fuck me,” he said, almost missing the way Mycroft looked away at his phrasing. Wrapping his fingers around his brother’s tie, he loosened it, smiling when Mycroft merely frowned at him. “I don’t want that. I just… I don’t know. I just want to touch you.”

“Something that can be achieved without orgasm.”

“Yes, but I figured if I was to blow you and not let you get off, you’d be upset.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Mycroft glanced over at the door with a troubled scowl. Even if he wanted to give in, he likely wouldn’t. Cupping his brother’s cheek, Sherlock pressed a brief kiss to his brother’s lips as he climbed out of Mycroft’s lap. Resting his hands on the man’s knees, he ran his hands up and down Mycroft’s thighs, squeezing at them as he did before bring them back down. Gently spreading his brother’s legs further, he dropped to his knees between them slowly, eyes locked on Mycroft the entire time.

Picking up his drink again, Mycroft knocked it back without so much as a moment’s hesitance before looking back at the door again. When he turned back to Sherlock, staring into those determined blue eyes, he sighed heavily. “I could leave right now and put an end to this.”

“You could,” Sherlock readily agreed. Resting his cheek against Mycroft’s leg, he stroked the growing bulge between his brother’s legs with his thumb, smirking at the sharp intake of breath it drew from his brother. “But I can’t be the only who’s thought about this.”

“One can have thoughts without acting on them,” Mycroft complained as he slouched in his seat a bit more, hips pressing toward Sherlock as he did.

It was rather amusing, watching the battle Mycroft seemed to be involved in with himself as his mind argued against what his body so obviously wanted. Nuzzling at the crook of Mycroft’s thigh, mouth falling open to breathe heavily against the man’s trousers, it was clear which side Sherlock favoured.

Shaking his head, Mycroft pinched at the bridge of his nose. “We’re in dad’s study for heaven’s sake. Can’t you wait?” He questioned, although the ire in his tone seemed to be fading.

Staring back at him through his lashes, Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve been waiting for months. There’s been no one else. I… Do you not want me?”

Mycroft ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls like one would stroke a pet. Eventually stilling his hand to cup the back of his brother’s head, he told him, “I’m not the one who insults the way you look constantly.”

“I can’t insult you with my mouth full,” he pointed out playfully.

“Very crass.”

Smirking, Sherlock chose to ignore the comment as he nuzzled along the straining fabric over Mycroft’s crotch, mouth practically salivating at the idea of what he was finally getting the chance to do. Lifting his hands to Mycroft’s belt, he watched his brother carefully as he began to undo it. With his hand to heavy against Sherlock’s head, he could easily put an end to things whenever he saw fit, yet it was that small bit of uncertainty that added excitement for the younger Holmes.

At least until he managed to cast Mycroft’s belt aside and open his fly, offering little more than a glimpse of the dark blue of his brother’s pants. Sliding his hands to Mycroft’s hips, he hooked his thumbs in the edge of his trousers and tugged at them twice before Mycroft finally gave in with a roll his eyes and lifted his hips enough to pull them down slightly. If they get caught, there would be no denying what was happening, but Sherlock was rather fond of that idea as he stroked at Mycroft’s cloth covered erection.

Sliding his fingers up and down the length of it, feeling it twitch because of what he did. Because of the fact that he was the one in control, the one that caused that half-lidded look on Mycroft’s face. Biting his lip to keep from smiling, Sherlock eased his brother’s erection out from the slit in his pants. There was something fascinating about having the unfamiliar weight of it in his hands, thumbing along a rather prominent vein curiously.

Eyes darting up toward his brother when Mycroft cleared his throat rather noisily, Sherlock could feel a heat start to burn at his cheeks when the man asked him, “Can we hurry this along, please?”

To anyone else it would’ve been rude, insulting even to be rushed in such a way, but to Sherlock it was as close as he would ever get to having his brother beg for it and even the vague acceptance of what they were doing was enough get his own blood rushing. So with a casual shrug, he did as he was told, taking little more than the head into his mouth as the hand in his hair clenched and unclenched.

Tongue sliding across the slit as he sucked at it, Sherlock was just as fascinated by the taste and feeling of his brother’s cock as he was the man’s reaction. When Mycroft was generally the type to keep even his smiles well controlled, to see that control falter, for his eyes flutter shut as his lips parted in silent bliss was nothing short of beautiful and addicting. The only thing necessary to spur Sherlock further as he took more of the other man into his mouth, his attention quickly turned to making Mycroft come undone.

It didn’t take long before Mycroft was panting quietly, head resting against the back of the chair. His hips stuttering to a stop every time he caught himself gently fucking his brother’s face, only to have Sherlock moan in annoyance because he liked it; the feeling of his brother's cock sliding in and out of his mouth was perfect. Sherlock wanted nothing more than for his brother to use him, to fist his hair and just take what he wants; tried to tempt it out of him as best he could.

Fondling Mycroft’s balls with one hand, he moaned far too loudly in the quiet of the study before taking all of Mycroft into his mouth. Swallowing around him, Sherlock wasn't sure if Mycroft actually moaned or if he imagined it as he pressed the heel of his free hand against his own erection, practically whimpering at the friction as he rocked into it.  When those long fingers stopped toying with his curls and simply yanked at them, he thought he might ruin his pants and trousers for a brief moment.

Struggling to stop his hips from rocking into Sherlock’s mouth or the way his little brother was sucking at him, Mycroft let out a choked off noise before finding the words to speak. “Sherlock,” he groaned, voice thick with lust and faltering self-control. “Fuck. Sherlock stop. Stop it. I’m close.”

Forcing himself to look up at his brother, Sherlock drew back, grazing his teeth along the length before deep throating Mycroft’s cock again in one smooth action. It was easily the end of the conversation as Mycroft gave up trying to stop him, rocking into his mouth until he came with a sharp intake of breath. Swallowing around him, Sherlock did his best to milk his brother of every drop before letting the softening cock slip from his mouth.

Slipping his brother back into his pants, Sherlock tried not to pay any mind to his own rather insistent erection or the way Mycroft tiredly watched it. “Are you always that quiet during?” He asked as he rose to his feet, trying not to shift nervously under his brother’s gaze. “Not that I care, but it’s weird. And considering I only have last time to compare it to…”

“Yes,” Mycroft said as he forced himself to sit up a bit straighter. Pulling up his trousers and buttoning them, he blinking tiredly before shaking his head. “Do I want to know where you learned any of that?”

“No. Probably not.”

Even more, Sherlock found that he didn’t want to tell his brother such a thing. Not that he felt shame over what he had done in the months that followed losing his virginity. He didn’t, not when his body was just a vessel. And while he was all for frank discussions about everything, even the thought of having that one with Mycroft just left him feeling strangely unpleasant.

Thankfully, Mycroft let it go with a shrug of his shoulders before turning his attention back to Sherlock. Cupping his brother’s erection, Mycroft smiled lazily at him. “I’m not returning the favour.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock questioned as he tried not to grind against his brother’s hand.

Fondling him, Mycroft watched him boredly as he asked, “Why should I reward you for getting me off in Dad’s study mere minutes after he left? You know both he and mummy are likely still awake and yet, you don’t care. You’re reckless.”

“So you’re punishing me?”

“Someone has to.”

Moving his hand to grip the front of Sherlock’s shirt, he tugged at it. Against his better judgement, Sherlock gave in willingly, finding himself in his brother’s lap once again. He didn’t know what he was expecting out of the situation since he doubted Mycroft was simply toying with him, but a kiss wasn’t it. Hell, he nearly had a panic attack as his brother’s tongue worked its way into his mouth out of the shock of it. Kissing after wasn’t what happened after giving a classmate a quick blow, after all. Yet all too quickly, Mycroft was drawing back, chuckling at the almost scandalized look on Sherlock’s face.

“You kissed me,” he stated dumbly, not sure there were any other words he could string together.

Nodding in agreement, Mycroft stroked his cheek fondly. “I’d offer you another drink to get the taste out of your mouth, but I rather think you’d prefer it to more scotch.”

“I’d prefer actual paint thinner to that,” Sherlock said, grimacing slightly at the idea of any more scotch.

“Well in that case, go handle your business,” Mycroft said, pointedly glancing at his crotch.

Furrowing his brows in confusion, Sherlock started to complain, only to have Mycroft give him a question look. Nothing he could say would change his brother’s mind, since the smug bastard seemed rather decided on letting him deal with his erection on his own. So, rising to his feet, Sherlock rubbed at himself briefly, tongue licking at his lips for a brief moment as Mycroft shifted in his seat before making his way toward the door, chalking up his excitement at Mycroft telling him to go wank to his already fickle hormones.


	9. Drove Me Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wasn’t simply some excuse,” he said, doing his best to sound hurt that Mycroft would even suggest such a thing. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to spend your twenty-fifth birthday all alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So happiness is good and totally makes up for the crazy amount of time this took. SO enjoy the cute fun while it lasts because it never does for long. I'm not good at happy.

Lying sprawled out on Mycroft’s sofa, Sherlock lazily ate a slice of the cake they had brought as his brother talked to their mother on the phone. The poor man had been on the phone for nearly an hour talking to their parents, who seemed all too eager to ask him how his birthday had gone and whether or not he had received his gifts. It was, all in all, a rather boring conversation from where Sherlock sat, especially when he could tell Mummy was talking to Mycroft about him, given that the fact that he had skipped out on a day or two of school to visit his brother was hardly a secret.

After all, Mycroft had scarcely waited even an hour before notifying them of Sherlock’s arrival to at his flat and while he was certain they would’ve preferred his brother taken him back to school as soon as possible, somehow they had come to the agreement that he would simply stay the rest of the week given that his grades were rather decent, something Sherlock knew was entirely based on Mycroft’s casual mention of the fact that he wanted someone he moderately enjoyed to spend his birthday with, even if he hadn’t actually meant it.

When Mycroft finally managed to reach the end of their conversation, the usual goodbyes being uttered before hanging up, he let out a heavy sigh as he shook his head, a fond smile on his lips as he did. Making his way back to the sofa, he knocked Sherlock’s feet off of his spot before sitting down next to him.

Taking another bite of his cake, Sherlock placed his plate down before asking, “So, what did mummy say?”

“That you shouldn’t use my birthday as an excuse to skip out on school,” Mycroft said, giving him a rather pointed look.

Something that Sherlock blatantly ignored as he placed his feet in his brother’s lap, given that he had been rather comfortable laid out on the sofa. “It wasn’t simply some excuse,” he said, doing his best to sound hurt that Mycroft would even suggest such a thing. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to spend your twenty-fifth birthday all alone.”

“Funny. It’s rather how I spent my twenty-fourth one without complaint.”

“I’d have been here if you would have wanted anything to do with me then,” Sherlock said somewhat cautiously.

Events from the past year seemed to be a rather sore subject for the both of them when brought up, but surprisingly, Mycroft didn’t issue a complaint or excuse. Instead, he merely ran his hand along Sherlock’s calf, a small smile tugging at his lips as he nodded along. “So it’s entirely my fault, is it?”

“Entirely.”

“I’m sorry.” Moving Sherlock’s legs off his lap again, Mycroft shifted to lie half on top of him in order to kiss him briefly. “You’re here now, though, and I really do appreciate the sentiment, though I’m curious as to the reasoning behind it.”

“I knew there would be cake and that you would be home alone tonight.”

“But I’m not alone. You’re here, as are a rather nice array of gifts from the family and a few friends. Most of which you opened for me,” he said, eyes darting toward the mess of wrapping paper that seemed to litter every corner of his living room floor.

Of course, such a fact was more a testament to the destructive way Sherlock managed to rip wrapping paper to shreds in his rush to open things as opposed to Mycroft’s popularity. Not that Mycroft hadn’t gotten a fair number of gifts from the odd friend and family member, but certainly there weren’t enough to logically explain away the amount of mess Sherlock had managed to create.

Forcing Mycroft to look at him rather than the mess on the floor, Sherlock told him, “You always let me open your presents.”

“No,” Mycroft corrected, “You started doing that at my ninth birthday and then stopped. You even open my Christmas presents.”

“You’re so slow. You carefully undo everything instead of tearing right into it.”

Because if Mycroft was allowed to open his own gifts, he would likely have taken forever to get through it all with the way he carefully peeled away the tape and ribbons and bows on gifts so that way he could unfold the paper without doing it damage. Even the thought of such a laborious process made Sherlock roll his eyes at his bit back a rather annoyed groan.

“Less of a mess.”

Picking up a piece of rather obnoxious lime green wrapping paper, Sherlock balled it up and tossed it at his brother’s face, smirking when Mycroft swatted it away after it hit him in the nose. “Well that’s hardly the case tonight,” Sherlock said rather proudly.

“Clearly. You’ve made a mess of my living room. And all for what? So that you might be able to see what people got me?”

“Rather dull gifts too: paperweight from that mate of yours, pocket watch from grand-mère, an umbrella from mummy. It’s all so boring,” he groaned.

“I was quite pleased with all of those. Especially the pen dad got me.”

Looking over at the pen that rested on the coffee table among all the other gifts, Sherlock shook his head. Squirming from under Mycroft, he sat up and grabbed the rather run of the mill ballpoint pen, looking it over with a small scowl. “Yes. A pen and a bottle of scotch. I’m assuming the latter is to make a pen seem like a decent gift?”

“It’s a Montblanc pen that I’ve had my eye on for some time now, thank you,” Mycroft said as he snatched the pen away. Sitting next to Sherlock, he placed the pen back between the paperweight and the scotch with a level of care Sherlock couldn’t help but scoff at.

“You actually asked for a bloody pen for you birthday?”

“Yes. It goes well with the day planner I got for Christmas,” Mycroft said as though it was obvious.

Although, the only thing that was obvious to Sherlock was how incredibly boring his brother managed to be. After all, while he may have been seven years younger than Mycroft, he was fairly certain that, at twenty-five, most people didn’t particularly care to get what essentially amounted to office supplies as proper holiday presents.

“You realize you’re twenty-five, not fifty, yes?”

“You know, I don’t recall getting a gift from you,” Mycroft said, looking at him rather expectantly.

“Merely me buying dinner for the two of us and cake. It’s my birthday and yet I’ve done nothing but treat you.”

“It’s because we both know that’s what makes you happiest in the world,” Sherlock quipped.

Letting out a bark of laughter, Mycroft shook his head. “I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

“Fine.” Getting up, Sherlock turned to face his brother, lips pressed into a thin line. With his hands resting on his hips, he looked his brother over before letting out a small sigh. “Close your eyes.”

“This isn’t some joke, is it?” Mycroft asked suspiciously as he slowly lifted his hands to cover his eyes.

“No. I got you something. I just don’t want you peeking.”

“Is this why you didn’t answer the phone when I called from work earlier?”

“Your eyes are still terribly open,” Sherlock said as he gestured for Mycroft hurry up.

“Fine, fine,” Mycroft said as he placed his hands over his eyes.

Bending closer to him, Sherlock tilted his head to the side with a small frown. Not that he didn’t trust his brother, but after eighteen years, Sherlock knew that if there was one thing Mycroft seemed to have trouble with, it was following the rules the younger Holmes set forth for him. So, holding up two fingers, he asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Sherlock, honestly.”

“Fingers, Mycroft. How many?”

Shrugging helplessly, Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. “None because you never hold up any fingers because you find the entire process stupid and a horrible test as I could easily lie.”

“Good,” he said as he dropped his hand to his side.

Carefully manoeuvring around the minefield of discarded paper, Sherlock made his way over to the kitchen. Making a much louder noise than necessary as he searched about for the small box he had stashed away in the cupboard amongst the cleaning supplies, he kept a cautious eye on his brother to make sure he didn’t peek before grabbed it and went back over to the sofa.

Waving his hand in front of Mycroft’s still covered eyes just to see if he could garner a reaction from the older man, he smiled to himself before sitting next him and placing the rather plain white box in his brother’s lap.

“Alright. You can open your eyes now.”

Dropping his hands from his eyes, Mycroft frowned at the brightness before turning his attention toward the object in his lap. Smiling rather fondly, he stated in sickly sweet voice, “You got me a box. How very lovely.”

“Open it,” Sherlock ordered in a vague hope of skipping past his brother’s sarcasm.

Thankfully, Mycroft liked knowing what his gifts as much as any other normal person, even if his choice of gifts were a bit odd. Absolutely no time was wasted in opening the box and removing the contents with a wry smile. Holding the small, more elaborate box up for inspection, he chuckled. “You got me a box of chocolates despite knowing I’m on a diet.”

Sherlock only nodded as he looked off toward the door as though he was expecting someone. Even if Mycroft took the present as a small jab at his latest dieting woes, Sherlock knew his brother would enjoy the chocolates sooner or later. It was a fool proof endeavour that did nothing to abate his feelings of nervous as he watched Mycroft make room for the chocolates next to his scotch.

Taking a deep breath, though, he grabbed Mycroft’s wrist, stilling him as he continued to look at anything other than his brother’s curious gaze. “I’m going to say something and you can’t mock me for it.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been thinking about this since I last saw you, and the timing may be off but I feel you should know.”

“You’re pregnant?” Mycroft teased.

Letting go of his brother, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest as he turned away from him. “Sod it.”

If Mycroft was going to blatantly ignore what he told him, Sherlock wasn’t going to go through with it. It wasn’t even a necessary thing. Just a foolish idea that had been weighing far too heavily on his mind, something he thought that his brother might actually care to know. But, much like so much with Mycroft, he seemed to be so very wrong and knew he should’ve settled for well enough when Mycroft approved of his gift.

Yet, no sooner had he turned away, upset thoughts overtaking him, did Mycroft wrap his arms around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. “No. Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding rather sincere, not that Sherlock was so easily swayed. “Please continue? I won’t say a word.”

“No. Because it’s stupid and too soon.”

Nearly wincing at his own choice of words, Sherlock debated simply staying quiet. He knew his brother wouldn’t press for any sort of answer immediately, even as he rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. If he stayed silent Mycroft would pretend to let it go and his mind would continue to ruminate over the same foolish thoughts. So, really, even if the idea of expressing his news made him nervous, it was best for his sanity in the long run of things. Or so he tried to make himself believe as he shifted around to face Mycroft.

“We’ve been together only a few months, but…” Exhaling softly, he shook his head. “I don’t know. I just wanted to let you know that I love you. I love how annoying you are and that you asks pens and day planners as gifts and even the fact that you’re all fur and freckles. And I just thought I should say that.”

Blinking as though he was trying to overcome some great shock, Mycroft merely stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “Sherlock…”

“Shut up and eat your cake, you overgrown mammoth,” Sherlock snapped as he looked down at his own lap, fear creeping up his throat like bile.

Cupping the younger Holmes’ cheek, Mycroft forced him to meet his gaze before telling him, “No, Sherlock, I love you too.”

“You don’t have to say it back, I just happened to come to that decision since I last saw you and I thought you should know.”

“I’m not just saying it back to make you feel better because I would never do that for anyone,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “I honestly love you and knowing that you feel the same is by far the best birthday present I’ve ever received. Right up there with the umbrella mummy bought me.”

Furrowing his brows, Sherlock stared at him. “You’re comparing my feelings for you to an umbrella?”

“Have you seen it? It’s a rather lovely umbrella.”

“You mammoth,” he said, shoving his brother playfully.

Mycroft’s reply and retaliation came in the shock of his lips pressed against Sherlock’s own as the larger man pressed him back against the sofa. And while the playful side to his brother came as a sort of shock over the past two days spent with Mycroft, the contact was something that Sherlock knew he wouldn’t want to give up in three days when Sunday finally came around.

Even when Mycroft backed away as Sherlock parted his lips, he had to bite back a frustrated groan. It was clear from the unusually mischievous look on his brother’s face that Mycroft had something else in mind, but even if it turned out to be better, Sherlock would’ve preferred even another brief moment of kissing his brother.

“I think I know what else I’d like from you for my birthday,” Mycroft declared as he stood up, eyes only briefly darting around to take in the paper on the floor.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock asked, “For me to clean up the mess I made?”

“No,” Mycroft said, waving off the question before thinking better of it and correcting himself. “Well, yes, but not now. For now follow me and find out.”

And just like that, Mycroft began to make his way to his room, leaving Sherlock to follow after him with an overdramatic sigh. Even if he was excited for whatever it was his brother had planned he wasn’t simply going to show it. It just wasn’t how they worked, going along easily with what the other wanted. Instead they fought each other with snappish words and dramatic actions like proper siblings tended to do, even though he knew Mycroft would never care for such a thought considering how else they acted with each other.

Walking into Mycroft’s room and looking over the neatly made bed, only slightly marred by Mycroft who sat on the edge of it, watching the entrance as though he had been waiting ages for Sherlock to finally make his way through the door, Sherlock closed the door before placing his hands on his hips and staring right back at him.

“It’s your bedroom,” he stated boredly. “I wonder what you could want involving here.”

“You’re a clever boy,” Mycroft said mockingly. Moving to lie on the bed, fingers meticulously circling each button of his shirt before undoing it, he merely arched a taunting brow as he watched Sherlock’s eyes focused on every inch of skin exposed. “Certainly you can work it out yes?”

“I never took you for the type to put on a show.” Making his way over to the bed, Sherlock gave Mycroft a once over before straddling his brother’s hips. Sliding his hands up his brother’s chest, he pushed the shirt off his shoulders, Mycroft sitting up just enough to get it off. It was nothing like what he was used to and he couldn’t help but make mention of it. “Normally you tell me how inappropriate and wrong this is.”

“We’re in my flat,” Mycroft stated blandly. “So long as no one pops in for a visit, you could walk around naked for all I care.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock teased as he tugged off his own shirt, preferring the idea of skipping straight to the point of things rather than drawing it out.

Not that Mycroft seemed to mind in the slightest. Sitting up, he pressed himself chest to chest with his younger brother, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he nodded. “Very much so.”

“Deviant,” Sherlock muttered softly.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Mycroft scoffed.

Pressing against his brother’s chest, Sherlock watched as Mycroft followed the silent command and laid back down, one brow arched curiously as he rested his hands just above his head. It was permission and a taunt all at once, but Sherlock was more than willing to play into such an action. Resting his hand over Mycroft’s stomach, feeling muscles clench as his brother fought to avoid being touched there, Sherlock leaned forward to capture the elder Holme’s mouth.

In that, any lack of confidence Mycroft felt at Sherlock’s hand resting on the swell of his stomach dissipated as he kissed him back. Nothing more than the slick slide of lips and lips caught between teeth in little bites that were just the right kind of rough. It was the one thing they knew about each other for certain, their relationship making little more than the quick snog a possibility between them. Yet when Mycroft cupped the back of his neck, holding him close as though he might actually move away, Sherlock was thrilled for such simple knowledge. Thrilled and deeply unsatisfied since there was so much more to know about what got his brother off.

Running his hand over Mycroft’s stomach, Sherlock chuckled as his brother tried to shy away from it again only for the sound to end in a ragged moan as Mycroft grinded against him, a large hand pressing against his lower back to keep him from moving away himself.

“Keep it up and you’ll be tied to the headboard while I get myself off,” Mycroft muttered darkly into his mouth.

With his voice roughened with lust, Sherlock knew Mycroft meant his threat to some degree and yet the idea didn’t seem all that bad. It was merely the obvious possibility for the evening as Mycroft continued to roll his hips against his, each motion a painfully slow drag of trouser covered erections pressed against each other, that made him run his fingers along the line of hair that seemed to explode into a rather large patch of chest hair.

And when he moved his hand, Mycroft did the same. Hips stilling, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, Mycroft quickly proved to have a plan as he undid his little brother’s trousers, pushing uselessly at them until Sherlock finally took the hint with a small growl. Moving away from his brother, Sherlock quickly shed his trousers and pants, only vaguely aware of the way Mycroft watched him as he did before pressing himself back against the elder Holmes.

“Anything else you’d like, birthday boy?” Sherlock questioned mockingly.

It was meant to be a joke, but that didn’t stop Mycroft’s brows from knitting together as he glanced over at the nightstand. Licking his lips, he eventually nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Actually, yes.”

Sitting up, Sherlock rested his hands on Mycroft’s chest, softly sliding his hands upward only to drag his nails down against the hair covered skin, an amused look spreading across his face as Mycroft shuddered underneath him. “And what would that be?” He asked, as Mycroft tried to keep himself from arching into that particular touch.

Tongue swiping across his lips, Mycroft ran his hands through his own hair as he seemed to fight to get the words out of his mouth. Yet all words were beaten out by a sharp intake of breath as Sherlock’s nails passed over his nipple. Hands suddenly squeezed tight around Sherlock’s wrists in order to stop him, Mycroft took a deep breath as he kept his eyes on their hands.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Blinking at Mycroft, Sherlock repeated the words over in his mind about ten times before finally shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You want me to… I mean… You’re asking for…”

“If you don’t want to that’s perfectly fine,” Mycroft said, hands releasing Sherlock’s wrist as he looked anywhere but at his younger brother.

And just as shocking as the request was how horribly shy Mycroft seemed about making it. Given all that he knew of Mycroft, Sherlock was more than a bit surprised to find that the man could be so nervous, even with him. Pressing a linger kiss to his brother’s lips, he smiled at him when he pulled away. “Anything you want. After all, it is your birthday and you only turn twenty-five once unless you’re like Aunt Regina.”

“Can we not mention her or any other family member during sex?”

Quietly, Sherlock nodded in agreement. Frankly, he didn’t much want to talk about anything as he pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder, hands sliding down his chest and stomach until they came to rest at his hips. A half formed thought to tease, to avoid his brother’s obvious erection and the way it strained against his fly, sprung to Sherlock’s mind and dissipated just as quickly. With trembling fingers, he undid his brother’s trousers, removing them before doing the same with his pants, half convinced through it all that the nervous thrill of the evening was apparent on his face.

Not that Mycroft said anything. If anything, he seemed just as nervous, shifting under his brother’s gaze as he crossed his arms over his stomach. “Everything’s in the nightstand,” he said, nodding over to it as though Sherlock didn’t already know such a fact from simply snooping through his room.

Still, he followed the lack of command without hesitance, grabbing everything he was meant to before taking his place back between Mycroft’s legs, running his hands along the insides of his brother’s thighs as he did. Licking his lips, he knew he wanted to say something, but capturing his brother’s mouth with his own was so much easier than the fragmented words in his mind. Every action somehow the same and so different than before as they touched enough other with as much purpose but only a fraction of the rush. Hands sliding down his back as Mycroft let his legs fall open a little wider, silently asking for Sherlock to continue.

“Like this?” Sherlock questioned as he grabbed a pillow to place under his brother’s hips.

Hesitating momentarily, Mycroft stared at him blankly before nodding. “Yeah,” he said, trailing his hand down along Sherlock’s spine. “Just like this.”

Slicking up his fingers, Sherlock couldn’t say he needed any more than that. Pressing a finger against his brother’s hole, he wasn’t certain which of them gasped when it slipped in, the strangely tight warmth making Sherlock harder as he tried to prepare his brother as carefully as possible. A task that grew harder as one finger became two and three or when Mycroft’s breath stuttered as Sherlock accidentally brushed roughly over the well hidden bundle of nerves.

And yet nothing compared to the way Mycroft actually keened at him when he withdrew his fingers. He was half certain that if he had been less eager, he could’ve made the older man beg, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Sherlock was more than content to briefly slick his erection before pressing into his brother, sharp nails digging into his lower back in an effort to pull him closer despite his efforts to go slowly. Their harsh breathing filling the room as he tried to let Mycroft adjust.

Mycroft, however, didn’t seem to appreciate the effort. It seemed to take a mere instance before his brother was clenching around him as he rolled his hips, trying to urge Sherlock on as he bit at his bottom lip. It was merely another surprise that Sherlock could do nothing about except for go along with it. Trying to move his hips slowly while his own body wanted desperately to give into Mycroft’s silent request for more.

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft groaned softly.

Coming from his usually quiet brother, it was practically a scream and one Sherlock didn’t hesitate to give into. Gripping at his brother’s leg as it wrapped around his waist, urging him on, he gave Mycroft what he asked for. Hips finding a steady pace, he watched as Mycroft started to come undone because of him. His brother’s hot mouth pressed against his shoulder, biting down on the sweat slick skin to keep from whimpering whenever Sherlock managed to move against his prostate. He’d likely have a mark come morning from that, but it seemed like a fair enough trade for the noises coming from Mycroft.

Wrapping his hand around his brother’s long neglected cock, Sherlock began to stroke; the sensation drawing out a choked sound from his brother. Sherlock, himself, already felt so painfully close, but couldn’t quite allow himself release. Not when he knew he wanted to watch his brother unravel first. Tightening his grip, it only took a few more strokes before he got what he was after; Mycroft’s entire body going tense as his teeth dug painfully hard into Sherlock’s shoulder.

With a hoarse cry, Sherlock soon followed his example, thrusting thoughtlessly into that spasming heat as he came as well. It wasn’t until Mycroft seemed to relax, slowly releasing Sherlock from the tight grip of his hands and teeth, did Sherlock himself finally think to move as well. Pulling out, he all but collapsed next to his brother, breathing into the bed as he couldn’t will himself to move.

If not for Mycroft finding some miraculous strength of will to get up and make his way to the bathroom, Sherlock was certain he would’ve continued to lay that way. Yet, the moment his brother returned and laid back down, just as flushed but cleaned up, Sherlock managed to curl himself up against his brother’s body with a soft grunt.

“So… That was good for you, yes?” He asked, unable to stop himself.

“Yes. Very. I’d say thank you, but that seems rather odd after sex,” Mycroft pointed out as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

“Good. In that case, I’m glad you had a happy birthday. Even if you did bite, you monster.”

Laughing a bit breathlessly, Mycroft kissed the top of his head before smiling into his hair. “Sorry about that. Although, if it means anything, I’m starting to think you might be better than an umbrella.”

Scoffing, Sherlock buried his face against his brother’s shoulder. He wasn’t going to dignify such a remark with any greater response than the yawn that managed to escape him as he closed his eyes, he decided. Instead, he would just fall asleep rather happily against his brother and perhaps hide his fancy little pen come morning.


	10. This Place Is A Prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how badly I've been waiting to get to this point.

“I take it this is another date?”

Looking across the table at his brother, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No more than usual.”

Although the fact that they had taken to making a habit out of dining out together whenever Sherlock visited him from Cambridge certainly said something about how common their dates were. And they were dates, in the simplest definition. It was always the two of them spending their time together, trading stories of their lives since their last encounter, often begrudgingly, until they finally made it back to Mycroft’s flat to do all the affectionate things they never would be able to do in public.

Picking at his dessert, Sherlock smiled to himself as he said quietly, “I like this. Going out with you. It’s quite nice and you always pay.”

“I am a very kind date, I suppose,” Mycroft agreed, making sure to keep his voice down, even in the crowded restaurant.

Looking him over, Sherlock quickly stole a bite of Mycroft’s food, before telling him, “Perhaps I’ll repay you on the ride home.” Eating the stolen forkful of food, he slipped it out of his mouth slowly before running his tongue along the back of it lewdly.

“I’d prefer we wait until we get back to my flat.”

“You mean cleaning up the clothes in the middle of the room?” Sherlock questioned with a heavy sigh.

“Yes, actually, I do,” Mycroft agreed with a small smirk.

“You are horribly boring, Mycroft. I’m only here for the weekend, after all.”

“And yet you make such a mess in that short time,” Mycroft said fondly as he stole a bite of Sherlock’s dessert out of spite.

Even if he did enjoy his brother’s company for the odd weekend, the mess Sherlock tended to make of his flat was less than appreciated. And given the months they’d been together, the fevered lust they had once felt had tempered, at least in his case, and the idea of a clean flat seemed far more pleasing at the moment than whatever it was Sherlock was intent on offering. Not that such an idea ever lasted much longer than the time it took Sherlock to change his mind.

“How’s work?” Sherlock asked in an obvious attempt to change the topic. “You’re taking on some new role or something according to dad.”

Chuckling to himself, Mycroft nodded. “Something like that,” he agreed readily. How his life had come up in a conversation between their father and Sherlock seemed far more interesting to him. Yet, rather than ask such a question, he instead shrugged the matter off casually. “It’s really nothing. I’m just wonderfully adept at what I do.”

“Which is?” Sherlock questioned.

“Work very hard.”

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock didn’t seemed particularly annoyed at the lack of answer, even as he asked, “You’re never going to tell me, are you?”

“It’s boring,” Mycroft explained with a kind smile. “You wouldn’t even enjoy me talking about it honestly.”

“I wouldn’t know. You only make vague comments to mummy and dad.”

“And you complain about that every time.” Because even the vague comments seemed to bore the younger Holmes and if there was one thing Sherlock seemed incapable of dealing with, it was boredom. Not that Mycroft’s change of topic seemed likely to elicit any more interest from his brother as he asked him, “So, how is Cambridge?”

“Fine,” he replied instantly. Cocking his head to the side, he pursed his lips as he watched someone over his brother’s shoulder. “Less interesting than that woman who keeps watching you?”

“What?” Mycroft asked, sitting up straighter as he fought the urge to turn and look for himself.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said as he busied himself with his food again. “She’s going to come over sooner or later. It’s written all over her face.”

“What if I know her?” He asked as he wiped at the corners of his mouth, even though he was certain nothing was there. Straightening his tie, he sighed. “Or worse, what if I don’t and she merely thinks she knows me?”

“Well, if it’s the former, you look fine. And if it’s the latter, you look fine. Either way, it keeps us from talking about how things are going for me.”

“Wonderful,” Mycroft said as he gave a small shake of his head.

It made perfect sense that whether or not things went well, Sherlock was simply happy not to have to talk about what he considered tedious. To him Cambridge was no different than any other type of schooling; boring people and classes that offered very little to him in his own mind. And while Mycroft would’ve questioned how Sherlock could be so disinterested in his own day to day existence, a nervous tap to his shoulder stole his attention away before he could.

The woman Sherlock had referred scarcely qualified to be called such. Not much older than Mycroft, himself, she was a rather small, young woman who looked far too delicate to handle even the slightest of breezes. Staring at him with large brown eyes and a faint flush to her cheeks, she swallowed nervously before finally finding her voice. “Mycroft Holmes, yes?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing at his brother nervously. Sherlock merely smiled smugly to himself as he sat back in his seat to watch the moment unfold before him. Watching her, Mycroft furrowed his brows and unwillingly said, “Uh… You are…”

“Aubrey Whittaker,” she said in a relieved rush. “Although that’s going to change soon. We went to Uni together. You probably remember Harry better than me.”

Rubbing at his bottom lip, Mycroft stared at her for a moment longer before the name finally seemed to draw forth a bit of recollection. “You were in that dreadfully boring history class, no?”

“Yes. With that awful professor that just droned on and on,” she said, waving her hand as she spoke

“He was less than informational,” he said smiling slightly at the memory.

“He was the worst and I did miserably in it. I always hated history,” Aubrey rambled, rolling her eyes at the memory. She was nothing if not an obvious girl, her every feeling seemingly written on her face. Even the way her eyes widened at the sight of someone else gave Mycroft the clues necessary to know nothing good could be coming before she spoke.

“Oh, hold on. Harry,” she called out, waving for the man to come over. “Over here. I’ve a surprise for you.”

Taking a hasty sip of his glass of wine, an act that left the glass half empty, Mycroft pointedly avoided the curious look his brother gave him as he sat up straighter in his seat, a heavy exhale escaping him as the last person Mycroft wanted to see made his way over.

“Aubrey, I thought you weren’t coming over here?” Harry asked as he wrapped an arm around her waist possessively.

“It’s him though. I was right,” she said as she playfully shoved at Harry. Turning her focus back towards him, she smiled happily. “Mycroft, you remember Harry, I’m certain.”

Clearing his throat, Mycroft nodded silently. Forcing himself to his feet when Harry shyly stuck out his hand, Mycroft shook it, doing his best to keep the tension he felt from showing. “Harry. It’s been awhile.”

“More than a while,” the man said softly. Of course, as if he realized his mistake, his next words were far more playful in tone. “Haven’t seen you since Oxford.”

“Oxford wasn’t that long ago, was it?” Mycroft asked.

It was meant to be small talk, but somehow the words seemed to fall sort. Harry definitely didn’t look all that different than he had back then. His hair was shorter and he seemed a bit larger, but the casual once over Mycroft gave him wasn’t even necessary to tell him that the army seemed to have been a rather lovely choice for the man after all.

Still, Harry didn’t seem to notice the once over, far too busy doing the same to Mycroft, judging by the way he blushed when their eyes met. Clearing his throat, Harry laughed nervously and told him, “Five years or so, I’m afraid.”

“Christ,” Mycroft said, wondering where the time had went.

“Oh that makes us sound so old,” Aubrey complained playfully. Pouting at the soldier, she added, “Don’t name numbers, Harry.”

“Sorry. Anyways, we seem to be interrupting your date with—“

“Sherlock. Sorry. I haven’t made introductions,” he said with a small grimace. The idea that he had left his brother sitting silently as they stood about awkwardly reacquainting themselves made him feel like such a terrible host, even if their little chat was quite the impromptu one. “Sherlock this is—“

“Aubrey Whittaker and her fiancée, Harry.”

“What?” Mycroft questioned, eyes immediately darting to Harry, who seemed more stunned than anything.

“Oh my God,” Aubrey laughed, shocked and amazed by Sherlock’s comment. “How did you know that?”

“You’re obviously dating him and you said your last name wouldn’t be Whittaker for much longer. That and the ring kind of gives it all away,” Sherlock said as he rested his hands in his lap.

Looking at the ring on her hand, Aubrey shook her head. “I’m so daft sometimes.”

“You’re engaged?” Mycroft questioned Harry, unable to hide the surprise in his tone. While anyone would expect the odd thing to change with friends over the years, marriage at their age seemed like such a careless and drastic one.

Shifting awkwardly, Harry nodded, unable to meet Mycroft’s eyes as he told him, “Yes. She fancies being married to a soldier for some reason. I’m not one to complain.”

Blinking, Mycroft nodded dumbly before forcing a smile for the couple. Giving Aubrey a brief hug and kiss on the cheek, he told her, “You lucky girl, you.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. That means so much to me.”

“It’s no problem. I never thought I’d see the day Harry got married,” he said, glancing at the rather quiet soldier. Looking back at her, he added teasingly, “Especially to someone as lovely as you.”

“That’s so sweet,” she laughed. “Harry, isn’t that the sweetest thing?”

“In regards to you, yes. Not so much to me,” Harry said, not that he sounded all that bothered by the remark. If anything he looked as dutifully happy as he should’ve been in the moment with his fiancée smiling at him like she did.

When she gave Harry a quick peck, it took everything Mycroft had not to look away, as the only thing worse than watching the couple be affectionate with each other would be for Sherlock to notice how much it bothered him.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” Aubrey asked, giving a pointed look to Sherlock. “Not to be rude or anything, but we’re having an engagement party soon and I know I’d just love to have you there. Everyone will be there, Mycroft.”

Looking at Sherlock himself, Mycroft furrowed his brows in confusion before he realized what it was Aubrey was implying. “No. No one. This is my brother.”

“So you’re not…” Harry started, only to end the sentence with a vague roll of his wrist.

“No. I’m terribly alone, I’m afraid. All the more reason I’d feel uncomfortable going to such an event. People you like should be there.”

“We do like you,” Aubrey said as though it was obvious. “And plenty of people will be there alone. Especially my poor cousin.”

“Aubrey, Mycroft doesn’t like being set up,” Harry pointed out warningly. “You remember how he was back in Uni.”

“Yes. Always holed up with you somewhere getting into trouble. Like that time you both managed to come down with the flu.” Turning to Sherlock, she let out a weary sigh as she told him, “Honestly, I tried to look after them both, but after the second day I simply couldn’t. Such a gross thing, two sick men.”

“Really? I never heard of that story,” Sherlock said, suddenly quite eager to join in the conversation rather than watch it happen.

Yet before Aubrey could continue, Mycroft cut in and told him, “And I’m certain you never will, Sherlock.”

“I have tons of stories like that though.” Pursing her lips, Aubrey looked between Mycroft and Harry before slowly breaking out into a devious smile. “Perhaps if Mycroft brings you to the party, since he doesn’t have anyone else, you and I can swap tales.”

“I think that sounds wonderful,” Sherlock said, giving Mycroft his best innocent smile.

Of course, Mycroft knew better than anyone that such a look could only mean trouble given that his brother was quite the actor when he chose to be. Even the idea of having Sherlock with him as a date of sorts was enough to make him rather certain that he wanted to avoid the event all together.

Thankfully, Harry seemed to understand. Taking her hand in his, he told his fiancée, “Aubrey, please. I’m involved in a number of those tales.”

“I know. But you’ll just have to suffer through that,” she said, winking playfully at Sherlock, who merely smirked happily. Turning her attention back towards Mycroft, she seemed nothing if not overjoyed as she asked, “So, can we guarantee you’ll be there, Mycroft?”

Looking between the happy look on her face and the mischievous one on his brother’s, Mycroft found the word ‘no’ settled rather comfortably on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to spill forth. And perhaps, if not for the slight furrow of Harry’s brows as he watched him with an almost sad look, he would’ve said it. Would’ve come up with some paltry excuse for why he couldn’t, but instead he found himself doing the opposite.

“It seems rather impossible to say no to at this point, doesn’t it?” Mycroft questioned rather unwillingly.

“Wonderful! I’m so excited,” Aubrey exclaimed, clapping happily. Resting a hand on her fiancée’s arm she looked up at him as she nodded toward Mycroft, saying, “Harry, do that card exchanging thing you do to look professional, yes?”

Quietly nodding along, Harry pulled out his wallet and searched through it until he found a card with his name and number on it. Offering up a weak smile as he held it out to the elder Holmes, he told him, “Here. My number.”

“And mine,” Mycroft said as he handed over his own card, just as unwillingly. “So, we’ll be in contact then?”

“Of course,” Harry agreed readily. “It should be a fairly decent party, I hope.”

“Oh Harry, you know it will be wonderful,” Aubrey interrupted cheerfully. Looking toward Sherlock, she added, “And you’ll be there yes? I mean, I know we’ve only just met and such, but you seem to be a lovely boy and we have so many stories to swap, don’t we?”

“Certainly. I’ll do my best to be around. If Mycroft is alright with that,” Sherlock said, looking at him with wide,

“Around? Why wouldn’t you be around?” Aubrey asked with a small frown.

“I go to Cambridge.”

“Oh you poor dear,” she said, patted him on the shoulder in a show of condolences.

She seemed to be under the belief that Sherlock had been forced to settle on such a place, an opinion Sherlock had long since given up fighting against. It was why, with a great deal of pride, Mycroft wasted little time in correcting her obvious mistaken belief by telling her, “He chose that, Aubrey. It’s where he wanted to go.”

“Oh you poor dear,” Harry said teasingly.

Doing her best not to laugh at such a comment, Aubrey gave the soldier a stern look as she tutted softly. “Harry, behave.”

Of course, Mycroft waved off her comment with little regard to his brother. “No. Continue on, Harry. Four generations of our family have gone to Oxford and then he happened,” he said, glaring half-heartedly at his brother.

Not that he didn’t understand why it was his brother chose Cambridge, but the whole ordeal was still a rather sore subject among their family and Mycroft could never resist reminding Sherlock of such a fact. It was worth it to watch the boy roll his eyes as he finished off Mycroft’s dessert out of vengeance.

Yet, while Harry and he would’ve likely spent more time mocking Sherlock’s choices, Aubrey simply patted Sherlock’s shoulder again and told them both, “With those curls and cheekbones I rather think I can overlook such a thing.”

“Why thank you,” Sherlock said, arching a brow at Mycroft as he smirked at him. A silent dare to make some sort of comment.

Thankfully, Harry cleared his throat before the conversation could continue on. Wrapping an arm around his fiancée’s waist, he nodded at Mycroft and Sherlock with a small smile. “Anyways, we should be getting to our meal. We were here with friends, of sorts. It was a pleasure seeing you again, though,” he stated, eyes looking Mycroft over once again before he held out his hand.

“Harry,” Mycroft said as he shook the man’s hand, the touch seeming to last far too long and not long enough. Staring at Harry for what felt like eternity, he forced himself to turn his attention toward Aubrey, kissing her cheek briefly before saying, “Aubrey. It was lovely to run into you both again.”

“You too, Mycroft. And it was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. Hope we weren’t too much of a bother,” she said, looking rather ashamed of her intrusion now that it seemed to be coming to an end.

Rising to his feet for the first time, Sherlock shook Harry’s hand before shaking Aubrey’s as well. “It was nice to meet you as well. Never get to meet too many of Mycroft’s mates.”

“Right, well, we’ll be off. Enjoy your evening. And… I’ll look forward to that call,” Harry said to Mycroft as though his future wife wasn’t pressed against his side.

Nodding along, Mycroft watched as they both made their way back to their own table, letting out an annoyed sigh once he was certain he wouldn’t be overheard by the couple. Taking his seat again after Sherlock had taken his own, Mycroft looked at his empty plate and the small remains of his brother’s dessert with a small scowl. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. She seemed nice.”

“Aubrey was always a friendly thing. A bit oblivious as well.”

“Clearly if she never got the impression that you used to fuck her fiancée,” Sherlock said as he wiped at the corner of his mouth.

Looking up at him, eyes wide as saucers as he tried to come up with some sort of reply to such a comment, Mycroft opened his mouth, only to have a slightly strangled noise to escape him in place of anything coherent.

Flashing a brief smile at him, Sherlock waved the entire matter off as though it was nothing. “Don’t worry. I’m not jealous. You look like the type to go through a soldier phase.”

“He…”

“Was just a fling?” Sherlock offered.

Wincing at the word, Mycroft shook his head. Even if he wanted to say it was a fling and nothing more, he knew it was a lie. And lying to someone as occasionally observant as his brother wasn’t worth his time or effort. So, with brows knit together in thought, Mycroft searched for his mind the simplest explanation for Harry.

“We didn’t part on good terms. We didn’t date, we just… enjoyed each other’s company and had sex. It was an unfortunate matter I’ve put behind me.”

“Clearly.” Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pushed his dessert around his plate with his fork before dropping the utensil, unbothered by the loud clink that came from it hitting the plate. “I couldn’t possibly have cut the sexual tension between you two with a bloody knife.”

“I thought you weren’t jealous?” Mycroft asked, meaning the question despite his wry tone.

Exhaling softly, Sherlock stared at him levelly and said, “I’m not. But you’re clearly bothered by him and I don’t particularly like that.”

“My … Harry is getting married to a girl I genuinely like and they’ve just invited me to their engagement party, because that’s how Aubrey has always been. She’s painfully friendly and sweet and I couldn’t be happier for her.”

Staring at him, Sherlock didn’t ask the question most might have. He didn’t question if Mycroft felt any sort of guilt for having slept with the girl’s fiancée once upon a time behind her back. Nor did he ask if Mycroft was jealous that she was the one to wind up with Harry. Instead, he merely leaned back in his seat and glanced around for their waiter.

“When we leave I’m snogging you,” Sherlock stated rather casually, never once looking back at Mycroft as he spoke.

Coughing out of surprise, Mycroft stared at him. “Sherlock.”

“I’m serious,” he said, finally looking back at Mycroft. “One cabbie watching me kiss you senseless doesn’t matter in the long run.”

“So what?” Mycroft questioned. “A kiss to make me feel better?”

“No,” he spat, as though the idea was somehow abhorrent. Glancing back at him, Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “You’re just really attractive when upset.”

“Thank you.”

The words were meant as a sort of insult, of that he was certain, but it was hardly enough to undercut the fact that Sherlock cared. While he may not have had any interest in Mycroft’s job or how clean he liked to keep his flat, the younger Holmes cared about those rare moments when Mycroft felt out of his depth and entirely bothered by life. And really, Mycroft couldn’t have asked for anything else from him, even knowing that there was a small pile of his brother’s clothes strewn about his floor back home.

“Thank me after we get back to your flat,” Sherlock said as he finally getting the attention of their waiter.


End file.
